


And So It Is

by firstlightofeos



Series: The Shorter Story [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Art, Awful People, Break Up, Chess, Cybersex, Divorce, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Infidelity, Jealousy, M/M, Marriage, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Secrets, Telepathy, consensual stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:40:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you believe in love at first sight, look a little closer.</p><p>A story about chance meetings, instant connections, and casual betrayals between four strangers who have one thing in common: each other.</p><p>[An X-Men: First Class <i>Closer</i> AU.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I - Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, my goodness, I can't believe this is actually _done_ and posted. 
> 
> First things first: **a warning.** The characters in this fic are not nice to each other, and as such, the language they use gets pretty offensive at points. 
> 
> Second: I in no way own _X-Men: First Class_ or _Closer_ or any of its characters or language, and I am not profiting in any way from this story. 
> 
> Fic and all chapter titles are taken from Damien Rice's song "The Blower's Daughter."
> 
> As with every fic of this sort, writing this thing took a village. Thanks to: 
> 
> **MisanthropicSycophant** , my artist, who has been incredibly understanding even as I've disappeared for extended periods of time into the giant timesuck that is applying to medical school, and whose work is _amazing_ , seriously; if you haven't already, go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/682307) and leave her a comment, because she took the small pieces of what I had and made beautiful, beautiful things.
> 
> The BB mods, for being so understanding and forgiving as I kept pushing my posting date back and back and back because, apparently, I can't estimate how long it takes me to write anything.
> 
> Everyone in #xmentales chat, and especially **spicedpiano** , for all the support, word wars, and butt-kicking I so desperately needed. 
> 
> **professor** , who patiently listened to my whining and bitching about this fic and kicked my butt when I asked her (and especially when I didn't) and helped me figure out a summary, even though _Closer_ is so not her thing.
> 
>  **unforgotten** , who let me meta and plot at her (and then sent me that meta when I lost it) and encouraged and pushed me and told me I could actually finish this, who read every piece of this fic as I finished it and reassured me that it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever written, and who has just generally been unbelievably supportive and helpful over the past several months. <3
> 
> And most of all, **christycorr** , my better half, who introduced me to _Closer_ 6 years ago, came up with this fic premise with me last summer, helped me plot it out (and write it, in some places), and has held my hand every step of the way, beta-ing and ripping things to pieces and just generally making this thing so much better than it would have been otherwise. It's been 5 years since we tried to come up with a _Closer_ AU in _Merlin_ fandom, and we can't quite believe that one of us actually managed to write, let alone finish, a _Closer_ -based AU. <3 <3 <3

Erik is uncomfortable, frustrated, and about to die of boredom. He hates these sorts of events, hates the sycophants who praise every damn thing, the critics who insist on wearing expressions that suggest they've been sucking on lemons all day, the people who pretend to be knowledgeable but so clearly are not. The champagne is obviously cheap, the food not even close to filling, and all Erik wants right now is a cigarette, but he's indoors—and anyway, he promised Charles he would quit.

Erik sighs, schooling his face into impassivity. He's here to support Charles, and he needs to at least _pretend_ he doesn't hate being here. He does think his boyfriend is unbelievably talented (and that's not even the blowjob bias talking), but if Erik has to listen to one more pretentious comment about The Work, he's going to pull the whole building down around everyone's ears. But he can't; Charles had made him promise that, too.

He grabs another flute of champagne—just because it's not good doesn't mean he won't drink it; there's no way he'll make it through tonight sober—and tries his hardest to avoid mingling. He's glad that so many people have come for Charles and are complimenting his photographs, that there are so many obvious mutants circulating through the room. But he can't help feeling that most baselines are here to gawk, looking at the mutants themselves as another curiosity, another "work" they don't quite understand. It's infuriating. More infuriating is that Erik can't _do_ anything about it, not without embarrassing Charles and making a huge mess.

He takes a large gulp of his champagne in an attempt to quell his nearly unbearable need for a smoke, then ducks into to the alcove that holds his favorite piece of the show.

It's a black-and-white photograph of a young mutant woman—a shapeshifter. Erik's not sure how Charles did it, but he managed to capture her mid-shift, transitioning from a gorgeous scaled mutant to an almost equally attractive blonde (or is she going from blonde to blue? Erik can never remember), the air around her rippling as she changes. A single tear sits on her cheek, and her expression is simultaneously fierce and fragile: _see me for who I am_ , she seems to say, her gaze penetrating and unavoidable even though she's half-turned away from the camera.

A subtle shift of fabric to his left alerts him to the fact that he's not alone, and he turns to see—the woman whose picture he's been staring at. She's currently wearing the blonde face, but her dress is the precise shade of blue Erik's seen in the color version of this photo (which Charles pretends isn't hiding in his desk drawer). She, too, is fixated on the picture, but where Erik finds it relaxing, comforting, she radiates tension, her knuckles white where they grip her dress.

"Like it?" he asks. She looks up at him, her expression shuttering even further.

"No," she replies. "No, I don't." She sounds young, younger than he had been anticipating. Of course, as a shifter, she could probably sound any way she liked. And why isn't she blue tonight? Certainly, if _he_ looked half as stunning as she does, he'd never succumb to pressure to appear any other way.

"Too personal?" he murmurs. She nods. "What were you so sad about?"

She quirks a smile, waves her free hand absently. "Oh, you know. Life."

Erik's not sure what kind of response she's looking for (if at all), so he doesn't even try. She watches him dispassionately for a moment, then turns back to look at the photograph with a shrug. It's a clear dismissal: He should walk away, should leave her alone with her obviously less-than-happy thoughts. But for some reason, he wants to _know_ her. She's compelling, even if he's not sure why.

"So, what do you think, in general?" he asks. He winces almost immediately; he'd promised himself he wouldn't be one of those pretentious assholes who talked about The Art.

"Of?" she asks, eyes not leaving the portrait.

"All this," he says, gesturing with his champagne flute in a way that's supposed to encompass the contents of the gallery. She turns to face him head-on.

"You want to talk art?" she asks, with a sardonic smile. "Really?"

"I know, I know," Erik sighs. He shakes his head self-deprecatingly. "Talking about The Work at the opening of The Work is, as I have been reminded, 'the height of _gauche_ ,'" he says, imitating Charles's accent. "But someone's got to do it." He sips his champagne. "Really, though, I am curious: what do you think?"

She tilts her head. 

"It's a lie," she says quietly, after several moments of quiet. "It's a bunch of mutants photographed beautifully, and all the glittering assholes and philanthropists and human apologists say it's beautiful, and a _celebration of what it is to be mutant_ because that's what they want to see, what they choose to see. But in the end, we're all sad, we're all nervous, we're all...performing for strangers and terrified of this fundamental part of us that's laid bare for people who don't understand us to judge as art, as objects, not as individuals who actually mean something." She huffs something that's not quite a laugh. "But they don't see that, so it's a beautiful lie, and, well. Everyone loves a big fat lie."

Oh, Erik _likes_ her. He should get her to talk to Charles.

"I'm the big fat liar's boyfriend," he confesses with a grin.

"Bastard!" she laughs, and for a second, her eyes dance with genuine mirth. But then her face becomes serious again, her eyes sweeping over him assessingly, as if she's looking for something and isn't quite sure she'll find it.

"Erik," he says, offering his hand in an attempt to halt her unsettling scrutiny.

"People call me Raven," she replies, shaking his hand firmly. She's stronger than he expected. He likes it.

"And what do you call yourself?" Erik asks, pointedly levitating one of her dangling earrings. He's familiar with the more radical sects of the mutant separatists; he understands what she's really telling him. As recently as two years ago, he might have introduced himself to her as 'Magneto.' 

Her smile brightens her entire face. "Mystique," she says. She blinks, and when her eyes open again, her irises have turned yellow—this must be her true eye color. After a few seconds, her expression turns evaluative again.

"So you're Charles's boyfriend, then." There's a hint of teasing disbelief in her tone, an edge of _Really? The two of you?_ Erik mock-bristles.

"What, you think he's too good for me?" he demands. "I know I'm not as pretty as he is, but. Well." He shrugs. "Who is?"

Mystique laughs lightly and shakes her head. "How long have you two been dating?"

"A few months," Erik says, allowing a slightly dopey grin to spread across his face. "It's all disgustingly sweet right now—we're that couple you hate, the one in the first flush. He finds all my nasty habits endearing." He pauses. "Except the smoking—he hates the smoking." He snorts. "I'm a doctor, you'd think I'd know better." She says nothing, but casts a significant look at the bulge in his breast pocket. Recognizing a fellow nicotine addict, he pulls it out and hands it to her. "Here, take it. I'm trying to quit."

"Sure," she says, slipping it into her purse. They stand in silence for a minute or so, then:

"Charles tells me your girl's written a book," Erik says. Mystique's lips quirk into that odd half-smile again.

"Emma would hardly let anyone claim her as _theirs_ ," she says, "but yes, she has."

"Any good?"

"Of _course_ ," she drawls. 

"It's about you, isn't it?" he asks.

"Some of me," she replies, her tone vague.

"Oh?" Erik asks. "What did she leave out?"

Her mouth twists, and she ripples faintly. She doesn't change her form, but she's making her presence, her power, known. There's a long pause while they both contemplate the photograph.

Finally:

"The truth," she says.

*

_2 years earlier_   


It's a gray, overcast Wednesday morning, and Emma's on her way to work, subtly using her telepathy to nudge people out of her way as she picks her way through the crowd of commuters, careful to keep dirt off her blindingly white shoes (no easy feat in this city). She pulls her capelet tighter as she spreads her awareness out a little further.

She's about to reel herself back in when something sparks on the edge of her consciousness. She stops dead at the street corner, head turning in that direction—and locks eyes with a pretty young blonde woman standing across the street, waiting for the light to change. The woman smiles slowly at Emma, her face lighting up brilliantly. Emma quirks a smile in return, unable to look away.

Intriguingly, when Emma nudges gently around the edges of the woman's mind, she runs into a _very_ strong barrier. This girl's met telepaths, then, and knows how to shield—but she's not one herself, or she'd have noticed Emma's poking. More fascinatingly, this isn't a type of shield Emma's ever seen before, which means the telepath who taught the young woman to shield is unknown to her. If Emma hadn't been determined before to say hello, she certainly is now.

The light changes and the walk sign flashes. The woman's eyes flick momentarily to the right before fixing back on Emma, and she steps down from the curb—into the path of a taxi speeding around the corner.

Everything slows down for an instant. Emma rushes forward, ignoring the gasps and screams as she turns to diamond, but she's not fast enough. By the time she's in the crosswalk, it's all over; the taxi's stopped, the driver yelling and tearing out his hair and saying things about watching where you're going, and who the fuck doesn't look left before crossing the street anyway, and the young woman is lying on the ground, limbs splayed and eyes closed. Emma stops breathing for an instant, dropping to her knees by the woman's side. She's not even sure why this girl matters, why she's so drawn to her, but she _is_ , and Emma's hit by a pang of longing, regret that she won't get to know her.

But then, as she watches, the young woman's eyelashes flutter and she gasps, her whole body _rippling_ —

And suddenly, she's blue and scaled, with slick, bright red hair. Her eyes shoot open, flicking dazedly from side to side, before locking with Emma's again, her gold irises holding Emma fast. The woman smiles the same smile that caught Emma's gaze in the first place, her gaze sweeping up and down Emma's sparkling body—and then she says, her voice mischievous:

"Hello, stranger."

\---

Luckily, the woman isn't hurt too badly—probably something to do with her mutation, Emma thinks—but the wound on her leg will need stitches, and someone should probably make sure she doesn't have a concussion.

This is how, an hour later, Emma finds herself walking into the ER waiting room after a brief bathroom trip, only to see the woman—still bright blue—rummaging through Emma's bag. She glances up when Emma sits next to her, returning Emma's raised eyebrow with no sign of embarrassment or shame.

Emma can't help liking her.

"Find what you were looking for, sugar?" Emma asks. She pokes tentatively around the edges of the woman's shields, looking for some sort of crack or hint of surface emotions, but there's nothing. Whoever taught her knew what they were about.

"Nope," the woman replies cheerfully, returning to her digging. After a moment, her hand stills, and she asks, "No chance of a fag in there, then?"

It takes Emma a moment to realize she's asking for a cigarette. The British slang spoken with an American accent is jarring—but it explains why the woman had looked the wrong way when crossing the street.

"No," she replies, though she makes no move to recover her bag. "Gave it up ages ago."

The woman sighs and returns the purse. "Too bad," she says. "I could do with a smoke, this is taking ages."

"I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to smoke in a hospital waiting room," Emma replies as she takes a quick look through her bag to make sure everything's still there. The woman shrugs.

"Probably not, but that makes it more fun." She sighs and adjusts her leg with a grimace. The bleeding has mostly stopped, thanks to the bandages the nurse hurriedly slapped on the cut, but it still looks painful.

"Do you want help putting that up?" Emma asks. The woman gives her an unreadable look and tries to lift her leg herself, but gives up after a second, face twisting with pain.

"Sure," she sighs. Emma pulls over a chair and gently helps her prop her leg up. The woman hisses quietly when Emma accidentally brushes against the bandage.

"Sorry," Emma says. The woman shrugs.

"'S'okay," she answers. She settles back a little into her chair and pushes her hair out of her face. "How long was I out?"

"A few seconds," Emma answers.

"And then?"

"And then you opened your eyes, and looked at me, and said, 'Hello, stranger,'" Emma says, a fond smile creeping across her face, and what the hell? She almost never smiles, and when she does, it's certainly not _fond_. It's a good thing her coworkers can't see her right now, or she'd lose her hard-won Queen Ice Bitch reputation.

"What a hussy!" the woman says, grinning back. Her teeth flash bright white against her deep blue skin, and Emma is struck once again by the beauty and uniqueness of her mutation. 

Emma laughs, then continues, "The taxi driver almost fainted in relief—he thought he'd killed you. And when I told him you should probably go to the hospital, he seemed reluctant; he was terrified of the prospect of paperwork, I think." She rolls her eyes. "So I told him, with a sneer, to just drop us off here."

The woman tilts her head. "Show me the sneer."

Emma flashes diamond and gives her best Ice Bitch look, the one that always makes her interns scurry to hide in their cubicles for the rest of the day. But the woman doesn't even flinch; instead, she claps her hands together once with a grin and says, "Ooh, good one, _sugar_." Her smile turns wicked. "I bet he wet his pants."

"Very nearly," Emma smirks, letting the diamond fade back into flesh. For a moment, she thinks she sees a flicker of something on the woman's face—the whorls of scales on her face make her expression hard to read—but then the nurse calls them in, and it's gone.

\---

The instant they get out of the hospital, the stranger stitched up and medicated with orders to rest and have someone keep an eye on her for the next few hours (she'd looked appealingly at Emma, who, instead of shrugging it off and saying she hasn't been a babysitter since she was sixteen, found herself agreeing—really, what is _happening_ to her today?), the woman manages to find a cigarette. She lights up right there outside the ER, blowing smoke in everyone's faces and completely ignoring the glares and horrified looks she's receiving.

Emma doesn't grin, but it's a close thing.

After a few minutes, the woman looks over at Emma. "You're not lecturing me," she comments, breathing out a stream of smoke.

Emma shrugs. "Just because I've quit doesn't mean you have to."

She receives a careful, assessing look. She returns it levelly, wishing not for the first time that she knew what was going through the other woman's mind.

"No," the woman says finally, dropping the cigarette butt to the ground and stubbing it out. "It doesn't."

\---

"You're kidding," the woman laughs. They're wandering aimlessly around the city, ostensibly taking in the sights, but really going wherever they feel like. "Seriously, you write _obituaries_? How did you end up writing obituaries?"

Emma shrugs. "Same way everyone around me did. We're all failed writers; had dreams of writing the next great novel, but we had no ideas." After a pause, she adds, "Or talent. So, of course, we ended up in obituaries, the Siberia of journalism."

Her companion laughs, twirling the large lollipop sitting in her mouth before pulling it out with a loud _pop_. "So what's it like in Siberia?"

"Unbelievably boring." Emma fiddles with her pendant. "We sit around waiting for people to die, and when they do, we make up bullshit about them that makes them sound like they weren't complete fuck-ups or assholes."

"Like?"

"Well," Emma says, "we have all these...euphemisms. So: 'He was a convivial fellow'—he was an alcoholic." The woman giggles. "'He was eccentric'—he was off his rocker." More giggling. Emma grins, continuing: "'He was never without his friends'—serial philanderer." They both laugh.

Then, more soberly, the woman asks: "If they were a mutant?"

Emma turns her hand to diamond and reaches out. "'Unique.'"

The woman slips her hand into Emma's, the blue of her skin refracting in all sorts of interesting color patterns. Then she smiles. "And _my_ euphemism?" she teases.

Emma thinks for a moment, looking at her carefully, taking all of her in.

Finally, she says: "She was...disarming."

"That's not a euphemism," the other woman pouts, sticking her lollipop back in her mouth.

"Yes," Emma replies quietly. "It is."

\---

"So," the woman says. "Can you shift into anything else, or is it only the"—she gestures up and down with the stick of the now-finished lollipop—"sparkly thing?"

Emma hesitates. On the one hand, the woman's shield means she's met telepaths, has been familiar enough with at least one to let them into her head and help her set up a barrier against others; on the other hand, the shield also means she doesn't want anyone getting in. But Emma likes her enough that it's better for her to know now rather than later, just...in case. Besides, it's not like she's ashamed. She hasn't apologized for who she is in years, and she's not about to start now.

At the same time, she can't help bracing herself when she says: "That's actually a secondary mutation. I'm primarily a telepath." 

But the other merely shrugs a blue shoulder and says, "All right." She looks a little tenser, but if she's not going to make it an issue, there's no reason for Emma to do so.

"And you?"

"Just a shapeshifter," the woman replies with a crooked smile. "But I can turn into anyone I like. Pretty awesome, huh?" Her expression turns wry, losing all its mirth. "They _loved_ it when I was stripping."

She's clearly trying to get a reaction out of Emma, but it isn't as if Emma hasn't heard worse. She's a telepath, after all.

"Is that what you were doing when you were...wherever you were?" she asks.

"More or less."

"And you were in...England?" Emma ventures, taking advantage of the woman's sudden willingness to share. Much as they've been talking—and flirting, if she's reading the signs correctly, and she almost always is—the woman's been surprisingly tight-lipped about her past. Emma still doesn't even know her name.

"Among other places," is the vague reply.

"Why'd you come here?"

The woman flickers, and then she's blonde again, looking as she did when Emma first saw her, her shields suddenly solidifying.

"Oh, you know," she says. "Same reasons why anyone moves." She smiles tightly.

"Work?" Emma asks. 

The woman shrugs. 

"Family?"

She shrugs again. "Sort of."

"Bad breakup?" Emma presses. Idly, she wonders if the woman's mutation has anything to do with it—she certainly seems to have some level of discomfort about it.

"Sort of."

"And you up and left, just like that?"

"It's the only way to leave," she says, contemplating her lollipop stick carefully. "'I don't love you anymore. Goodbye.'"

"And if you still love them?"

"You don't leave."

"You've never left someone you love?" Emma can't quite hide her disbelief.

"No." She looks away. "I haven't."

\---

Emma doesn't get her name until they're saying goodbye, at the steps of the building where Emma works.

She's about to go in when the woman says, "You have a girlfriend?"

Emma winces, suddenly guilt flaring in her chest. She'd _completely_ forgotten about—"Jane," she says. "Her name is Jane. She's a teacher. Minor telekinetic."

"Right," the woman says, smiling a little too brightly. "'Bye, then—"

"Emma."

"'Bye, Emma," she says, turning to go.

She's halfway across the plaza when Emma, unable to control herself, projects, _Wait!_

She gets through despite the shield; the woman turns around, looks at Emma expectantly.

 _What's your name?_ Emma asks.

The woman smiles.

 _Raven_ , she says. _My name is Raven Darkholme._

*

_ present _  


"So," Erik says. "Is she here, your girl?"

"Mmhmm," Mystique says. "She's over there, talking to your boy." She nods in the direction of the entrance to the gallery, where Charles is talking animatedly to a stunning, impeccably coiffed blonde woman dressed all in white. If she weren't with Mystique, and if Erik weren't with Charles, he might have gone for her.

"She's very pretty," he says.

"So is he," she replies. They both laugh.

Then Mystique's girlfriend touches Charles's arm, a little more familiar than Erik would like, and leans down to say something in his ear before leading him outside. Erik's grip tightens around the stem of his flute, knuckles turning white as he feels his jealousy rise. But Charles wouldn't, certainly not with Erik here—and even if Erik weren't here, Charles still wouldn't. He's not the type.

"Charles did always like to have the prettiest things," Mystique murmurs, her gaze following Erik's. 

Erik barely avoids snapping the flute in half. 

"I wasn't aware you two knew each other outside of that one photoshoot," he comments, his tone far more calm than he feels. 

Mystique shrugs. "Don't worry about it." She raises her hands, contemplating her fingernails as they flick from color to color. 

"Then again," she says quietly, looking up at him, "maybe you should worry."

Erik quirks an eyebrow, trying to hide the way his heart sinks at her statement. Mystique gives him a crooked smile and continues:

"Emma always gets what she wants."

*

_1 year earlier_   


"Perfect," Charles says. The shutter clicks rapidly.

He takes the camera down from his face to look at the display, scrolling quickly through the pictures he's just taken. He nods once and adjusts a few settings.

"How are you on time?" he asks, swapping out lenses. "I want to try a few things before we wrap this up."

"I've got time," Emma Frost, perched on a stool in front of a dark gray backdrop, replies. "Do you need anything specific from me?"

Charles shakes his head.

"Just relax," he says, raising the camera and taking a few experimental shots. He smiles, perhaps a little too broadly. "You don't have to look quite so severe."

She laughs lightly, crossing and uncrossing her legs with a whisper of expensive fabric.

"Honey," she says, her lips quirking faintly, "this _is_ me relaxed."

He lowers the camera, raising an eyebrow at her. She looks back at him coolly, her gaze unsettlingly piercing; he can feel her teasing curiously at the edges of his mind, not quite pushing, but clearly announcing her presence. He rebuffs her gently, shoring up his shields. After a moment or two, he shrugs.

"Suit yourself," he says. He looks down and fiddles with a few more settings before raising the camera again and taking several more pictures, the shutter clicking rapidly. 

She's still stiff, though—far too stiff, as if she's twelve and posing for a portrait, wearing an incredibly fancy dress that she's been warned not to wrinkle. Which, Charles realizes, is exactly it; he'd had to sit through enough of those as a child that he can recognize the signs in someone else.

So he starts talking, trying to relax her so he can get something usable. She looks impeccable in all of the portraits, of course; she's too stunning to not be used to having her picture taken. But she also looks uncomfortable, or as if she's going to reach through the lens and strangle the photographer—which, while not out of place on the runway, does not work at all in Charles's studio. 

"I read your book," he says conversationally. He's paying close enough attention to her that he sees the slight widening of her eyes, feels her faint burst of surprise. 

"You did?" she asks, shifting minutely on the stool. 

"Last night," he says, putting the camera down for a minute so she can look him in the eye. "Your publisher sent over a manuscript."

"What did you think?" Her face is still mostly expressionless, but she's radiating interest, and her fingers have twisted together in her lap.

"Well," he says, "it kept me up until four in the morning." He flashes her his most winning smile, and she relaxes—marginally, but it's close enough, and he quickly raises the camera so he can take advantage of the softening of her features before she remembers to freeze over again.

"You liked it, then." She sounds certain, more certain than she has a right to be, and he gives her a pointed look as he nudges the probing tendrils of her thoughts back from his own mind. 

"I never said that." He snaps a few more pictures. He looks up from the camera, assesses the way the light is falling, and says, "Turn a few degrees to your left—further—yes, right there." 

_You could have just showed me, you know_ , she says, directly into his mind. _Or moved me yourself._

 _Doesn't quite get the results I want_ , he replies, as evenly as he can, taking a few more pictures to distract himself. _It's more organic if you move through it yourself._

_You think you'd be cheating._

"In a sense," Charles murmurs, not removing his eye from the viewfinder. "Move an inch to your right, love, yes, that's exactly it, thank you." _Click, click._ "Lower your shoulders a bit, smile a little more"—Emma's smile is as blindingly white as her clothes—"no, all right, smile more with your mouth, less with your teeth, so you don't look quite so much like you're about to eat me for breakfast." She follows his directions, and he looks up from the camera to gauge the complete picture. She raises her eyebrows at him. "And now you just look smug." 

She laughs. "Such a perfectionist, _love_." She makes a show of looking herself up and down, somehow managing to do it without changing position even half an inch. "Do I maybe have a spot of dust on my shoulder? Is there grit in the corner of my eye?"

He chuckles. "No, no, dear, you look perfect. Now hold that for...oh, say, two minutes, and then we'll be done." 

True to his word, Charles puts the camera down two minutes later, resting it gently on the table beside him. He hooks up the camera to his laptop, setting it to upload the pictures so he can take a closer look and make sure he has everything he needs. Emma stays perfectly still, though some of her tension eases the instant the camera's no longer in her face.

"So my book," Emma says. "I really do want to know what you think."

"What I think as a fellow mutant, as a fellow telepath, or as a fellow human?" he asks, not looking up from his computer.

"Any of those, all of them, whatever you'd like." 

He shrugs one shoulder, and nudges her ever-probing mind back yet again. "It was...intriguing," he grants. He looks up at her. "Your protagonist, is she based on someone you know?"

"Yes," Emma replies. She seems unaware of the gentle smile that's crept across her face—interesting. 

"What does she think of you stealing her life for your own purposes?" he asks.

"Borrowing," she corrects smoothly. She crosses her legs and fiddles with the bracelet draped over her left wrist. "And she's pleased; I'm dedicating it to her."

"She agrees with what you have to say?"

"Of course." Emma pauses, then says, with a slight frown, "Why, don't you?"

Charles leans forward, letting his forearms rest on the table. "Not all of it, no. I thought you took a rather hard line."

She stands. "I don't see why I shouldn't. The whole point was to make people uncomfortable, to make them think about the current state of mutants, both in the human and mutant communities."

"You think all mutants should flaunt themselves, compromise and consideration for others' opinions be damned?"

"I think anyone who says _we_ "—she emphasizes the pronoun—"should hide, or rein in our powers, or pretend we're no different from baseline humans, is either a bigot or a coward—or both."

"We're not all that different," Charles argues. "Certainly, on a genetic level, there's not even half a percentage point of difference between most so-called baselines and the wildly impolitically named _homo superior_. It's true that it's not only the X-gene, especially not in individuals whose entire physiologies are altered as part of their mutations—-as with your protagonist—but talk to any evolutionary biologist or geneticist, and you'll find scant evidence for speciation. The X-gene is no more a differentiator of species than is skin color, or blood type."

Somewhere in the middle of Charles's speech, Emma's eyebrows start to rise; they're nearly at her hairline by the time he stops. He takes a deep breath and crosses his arms, glaring at her.

"What's a professor of genetics doing taking photography gigs for publishing houses?" she asks.

"Former professor," he corrects. He looks down at the computer, where the photographs have finished downloading, and starts clicking through them. "And it's a long story, but I haven't taught since moving from England."

"You were married," she says, not a question. He sighs and rubs his temples; clearly, his shields are leaking again.

"I was."

"Which was why you moved." She starts walking over to him.

"Yes."

"American?" She leans against the opposite edge of the table, pressing her palms against the wooden surface.

"Very." He can't help smiling at the memory, a warm burst of fondness mingled with regret washing over the room before he pulls himself back in.

"What happened?"

Charles gestures toward his temple with a wry expression. "I think you can guess."

She tilts her head, her gaze sharpening. "And that's why you take suppressants."

He takes an involuntary step back, surprised. She waves her hand dismissively.

"You're well-shielded, honey, but sometimes your thoughts leak, and when they do, they're weirdly fuzzy. You've also been oddly insensitive to _my_ projections." She crosses her arms and frowns at him. "Fuck your ex; you shouldn't have to apologize for who you are, or make people _more comfortable_."

"Believe it or not," Charles says shortly, turning back to the computer, "it has very little to do with anyone else."

Her look of disbelief speaks volumes, but before she can start lecturing him about oppression and establishment and appeasement and fucking the kyriarchy, he sighs and snaps, _Can we not, please._

Something in his tone must convince her, because she shuts her mouth and instead turns to perusing the photographs laid out on the table.

"They're all mutants," she comments. He can't tell if she approves or if she's going to throttle him for objectification and fetishization. 

He nods. "I have a show next year."

"About mutants," she says flatly. 

"Sort of," he admits. "You'll notice all the pictures are of mutants using their powers."

"Yes."

"So it's...more of a celebration of mutant powers—an exercise in showing the diversity of the X-gene's manifestations, if you will." 

"You know that's not how _anyone_ is going to see it," she says calmly. She walks around the table, her hand trailing along the photographs; he winces. "The mutantphobes will call it obscene and an abomination; the fetishists will wank to it; and mutants," she says, coming to a halt directly in front of him, "will call it exploitative."

He looks steadily up at her, refusing to be intimidated. "And you?"

"I'll give you a picture."

He sighs, about to tell her that that's very kind, but he has yet to figure out a way to depict telepathy in a way that's neither comical nor likely to bring an angry mob of people to his door—but then she winks and snaps her fingers. 

Charles reels back; it's as if Emma's thrown up a glittering wall between their minds, faceted and utterly impenetrable. 

"Sorry, honey," she says, sounding not a bit apologetic. "Side effect of this: you're not getting in here." There's a light tapping sound coming from her direction, but he can't quite see her, still blinded by the sudden loss of the connection to her mind that he hadn't even realized he'd formed.

He blinks, clearing the spots from his vision, and then takes another step back—in awe, this time—as his eyes grow wide. 

"Beautiful," he breathes. He draws away to better appreciate the view, taking in all the facets of her body, which has turned to—crystal?

"Diamond," she answers proudly, her voice echoing a bit. She shrugs off her jacket and steps back until she's standing directly in the sunlight streaming through his window, practically blinding as she refracts light in every direction. 

He stares for a moment before reaching down blindly and unplugging his camera from his computer. He lifts it and perfunctorily adjusts the focus and exposure before taking picture after picture, occasionally pausing to tell Emma to move to a different light or change her position slightly. Neither of them says anything else. After about ten minutes, he swaps out lenses again and takes another several photographs. 

Finally, satisfied he's taken every picture he might possibly want, Charles sets the camera back down on the table. 

"Thank you," he says sincerely. "Not everyone volunteers like that—and certainly not everyone has as stunning a mutation as yours."

Emma laughs, fading back to flesh. "Do you use that line on all the girls?"

He shakes his head and laughs slightly, turning back to his computer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her slip her jacket back on, and then she just...stands there, watching him. 

A few moments later, he realizes that she's projecting a distinct air of _Look at me_ at him, and he wants to resist, should resist; she's a job, she's clearly attached to someone else—

But. 

She's fascinating—and if her constant mental prodding is anything to go by, she feels the same way about him—and that's...hard for him to resist. 

So he doesn't. 

Emma smiles when Charles's eyes meet hers, a slow, bright thing that manages to be both predatory and seductive at the same time. 

"Come here," she says quietly. Charles hears a faint echo of the same in his mind. He hesitates, takes a step forward, and then has a better idea. 

_Why don't you come here instead?_ he projects, leaning against the table. Her eyes widen slightly—and then she smirks and strides over to him, her heels clicking on the wooden floor, giving every impression of being the one in control of the situation. And maybe she is; Charles is knotted up enough that he can't quite tell. 

Emma comes to a halt mere inches in front of Charles. She looks down at him and raises an eyebrow in challenge. He raises his hand to her face, not quite touching, but close, so close—

And then his hand is on her cheek and his other fists itself in the lapel of her jacket and they're both leaning toward each other, and then her lips are on his (or his are on hers, or both), and then they're kissing, and it's like everything and nothing he's ever experienced before; he can't help falling into her mind, and she's in his, and there's a strange feedback loop he's never felt before, and it's _intoxicating_ , and he almost wishes he weren't taking the suppressants so he could feel _everything_ —but no, no, that way lies madness. 

A sudden burst of guilt—not from him—makes him pull back abruptly, breaking the kiss. He notes absently, with some pleasure, that he's managed to wrinkle her impeccable clothing, muss her hair a little, and her mask is nearly all gone. Of course, the moment he notices its absence, it slots back into place, cool regard and sarcasm replacing desire—except in Emma's eyes, which still burn hotly. 

"You and your protagonist," Charles says quietly. "You—" He finds himself delving for an answer—his mind's not quite ready to give up its claim on Emma's. It's not freely given, not by any measure, but neither is Emma trying to hide it. "You live together."

Emma nods. "She's meeting me here, actually." 

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh and backs up even further, runs his hand through his hair. Emma's still eyeing him with that heated gaze, the guilt that surfaced in her mind now buried beneath interest and desire and images of resuming their kiss, but that one moment was enough. Perils of being a telepath: Charles can't unknow, can't avoid seeing that grain of contrition, hidden as it is.

"Right, then," he snaps. He walks to the window, trying to put as much space between the two of them as possible. He's still itching to grab her, to kiss her, to—he's not quite sure what, but he's pretty sure it falls into the category of _morally questionable_. He stares outside, broodingly, at the crowds moving below, at the overcast sky, threatening rain but not yet delivering. He feels incredibly bitter; he'd thought there was maybe some sort of connection, maybe there could have been...something, but clearly he's nothing more than a pawn in whatever the hell is going on between Emma Frost and the girlfriend she clearly doesn't love.

"Oh, it's nothing like that," Emma says smoothly. Charles rests his forehead against the window, barely resisting banging his head repeatedly against the glass. Damn meds, messing with his shields again; he's going to have to get his prescription updated, and he _hates_ those doctor's visits. "She's completely loveable, and completely unleaveable." He hears her walking toward him, but he doesn't bother trying to move away again. It's clearly pointless. "You're just...different." 

He'd spit back something nasty, but he understands what she means. Even now, his mind is still seeking hers out, still trying to twine with it. It's an entirely novel feeling, something he's never had with anyone before. 

And yet. 

The buzzer to the studio rings suddenly, echoing uncomfortably in the too-silent room. 

"Your muse," Charles says bitterly, turning away from the window to face Emma. He folds his arms across his chest. She cocks her head at him but doesn't say anything before disappearing down the stairs. He waits a second, then sighs and walks back over to his laptop, where he starts sorting the now-downloaded pictures into albums based on usability. 

He's not expecting Emma to walk back up the stairs, and he's certainly not expecting her to bring her girlfriend with her. But he hears footsteps, and he looks up. He feels all the color drain from his face.

"Charles," Emma says, standing at the top of the stairs, next to—

"Raven," he breathes. 

Raven smiles faintly, a white slash in her blue, blue face (and oh, he'd forgot how beautiful she is, how unbelievably stunning). 

"Hello, Charles," she says, her voice maddeningly even. Emma's looking between the two of them with a look of confusion that's almost comical; Charles is willing to bet good money that this is the first time in a while she's worn that expression.

"You know each other?" she asks. 

"From England," Raven supplies. "We... _used_ to know each other."

 _That's one way of putting it_ , Charles wants to say, but if Raven doesn't want Emma to know, if she doesn't want to acknowledge him as her adoptive brother, he can do little but follow her lead. It hurts, more than it should, to hear Raven barely even acknowledge what they used to be to each other, how they used to be inseparable, how much they loved each other—or, well, at least, how much Charles loved Raven. He hasn't seen her in years, not since she up and vanished with little more than a _goodbye_ and an admonishment not to try to find her. Now, when they see each other for the first time, they can barely look each other in the eye. 

But, as always, he finds himself slipping into his familiar childhood pattern of _Give Raven whatever she wants, even if it hurts_. He walls off his thoughts tighter than he has in years—Emma frowns at him, but Charles doesn't care what she thinks. It doesn't matter. 

"Anyway," Raven is saying, as if she isn't aware that Charles is falling to pieces in front of her, "I'm sorry to interrupt."

"Not a problem," Charles manages to say. "We were just wrapping up, anyway." He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and remembers his breeding: "Would you like some tea?" 

Raven smiles at that, a tiny bit wider, but there's still no warmth in her golden eyes, no sign that she feels anything of what Charles feels at seeing her again. Old habits, then, he supposes. 

"No, thank you," she says. "I've been serving it all day, I don't think I could stand to look at another cup." She looks around. "Could I use your toilet?"

"It's through there," he says, pointing distractedly. He can barely take his eyes off of her. She nods and walks off in the direction he indicated, leaving him staring after her, and Emma staring at him.

"Well," Emma says. "I can't say I was expecting that." 

Charles sighs and runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he says, turning to look at her. "Raven and I—"

"Have a history, clearly," she says. She shrugs. 

"You could say that," he replies. "Anyway—"

"I'd like to see you," Emma cuts in, abrupt, walking towards him. Charles, thrown by both the non sequitur and the passion in Emma's tone, flounders for a moment before remembering how he's supposed to answer. 

"No," he says, backing away. He shakes his head. "No."

She raises an eyebrow. "Whatever your history with Raven, it's obvious that there's nothing more between you two—"

"No," Charles says. "I don't—I don't want to see you." He can't quite give her the real answer, can't say _I don't want to hurt my sister any more than I've already hurt her, and I can't help you cheat on her_ , true as it may be, so this—and a strong pulse of _No_ —will have to do.

"I've got to see you," she presses, closing in on him, and even she seems surprised by her urgency. 

"Too bad," he says, ducking away. 

" _You_ kissed me," she points out. He rolls his eyes. 

"What are you, twelve? Get over it, Emma, get over—" _me_ , he's about to say, but that's when Raven chooses to walk back into the room. He can see from the look on her face that she's overheard enough of their conversation. Even as he's tried not to hurt her, he's done it again, and he wants to sink into the floor. He braces himself for her fury, waits for her to tear into them both—

But she just turns to him and says, "Will you take my picture? I've never been photographed by a _professional_ before." There's an edge to the way she says 'professional,' a slight sneer of disbelief—and there'd been a hesitation before the last syllable, as if she'd been about to say 'professor' instead. That had been the path he'd been on when they'd seen each other last, after all. 

_Whatever she wants_ , the voice chants, and he's powerless to refuse. 

"Of course," he says quietly. 

"I can pay you," Raven says, as if he hadn't said anything. He flinches. 

"No, that's not necessary," he says. He hesitates, then figures he might as well go for broke, and adds, "I want to." 

Emma looks between the two of them, watching their exchange with curiosity and not a little bit of concern. 

"You don't mind, sugar, do you?" Raven says, turning to Emma. 

"Mind?" Emma asks. "Why would I mind?"

"Because you'll have to go away," Raven replies, teasing; only someone who knows her well would notice the hint of menace underlying her tone. Emma, Charles can see, does. 

To her credit, she doesn't show it. "I can see when I'm not wanted," Emma says, laughing. She leans in and kisses Raven. "I'll meet you downstairs when you're done." 

"We won't be long," Raven says, with a pointed look at Charles. He shakes his head in agreement. Then, with a last lingering kiss to Raven and a heated glance at Charles that he tries very hard not to notice, much less acknowledge, Emma ducks out down the stairs. 

Charles and Raven regard each other across the worktable, the silence suddenly unbearably oppressive. 

"It's good to see you," he hedges, finally. "You're, erm, looking well." 

"You're a photographer," she says, not bothering to return his sentiment. 

"Artist, really," he says. "Photography is my preferred medium at present." She doesn't ask, but he still feels the need to explain, "Academia didn't...really work out the way I'd thought it would. So here I am."

"Here you are," she echoes. She looks down at the photographs on the table, exactly as Emma had done minutes ago. 

"They're all of mutants, using their mutation," he says hurriedly, trying to explain before she takes umbrage. "I've got an exhibition coming up, celebrating the manifestations of the X-gene, showing mutants—"

"As a freak show," Raven says, softly, her fingers touching the corner of one of the photographs thoughtfully. He isn't surprised by the sentiment; he _is_ surprised she's not yelling it at him. 

"It's, I, er, no, not that, not that at all—"

"It is, and you're just too arrogant to see it." She shrugs. "It's all right, Charles, I didn't really expect you to change." 

He winces. He's tried, he really has, but apparently it'll never be enough for Raven that he doesn't walk around with "TELEPATH" tattooed on his forehead. 

"I read Emma's book," he tries, hoping a change of subject will help. "You've...had an interesting life."

She laughs. "You didn't know it was me when you were reading it." 

"No." He swallows. "It does change my perspective of things a bit, I admit." 

Raven regards him speculatively. "Yes," she says finally. "It probably would, for you." 

He nods, not really sure what he's supposed to say to that. She doesn't volunteer a new topic of conversation, either, and they stand there, staring at each other, for far longer than he'd care to admit. Then he looks down at the table, and sees the camera. It reminds him that they're ostensibly up here for a reason that's not this amazingly awkward attempt at catching up. 

"Did you really want me to take your picture, Raven?" he asks, not looking at her. He reaches out and starts fiddling with the camera, twirling the strap around his finger, futzing with the exposure settings, turning macro on and off, anything to keep his hands busy. 

"Yes," she says. He glances up at her in surprise. She looks—and sounds—completely serious. 

"Right," he says. He picks up the camera and scans the studio, looking for the best place. "Over by the window okay with you?"

"Sure," she says with a shrug. She walks over to the spot he indicated, arranging herself so her body's turned away from him, her naked blue in full profile, but she's looking at him head-on. Charles walks over and starts snapping a few experimental shots, figuring out the settings he wants to use. He's struck again by how lovely she looks, and tells her as much. 

She gives him an odd look. "Thank you," she says, finally, flat. He nods awkwardly and takes a few steps back, hiding behind his camera as he takes another few pictures. 

"So you're with Emma, now," he ventures, after another period of silence. 

"Yes."

"How long?"

"That's really none of your business." She shoots him an exasperated look that turns into something closer to anger with every passing moment, the Raven he knew emerging bit-by-bit. "She had this...look, when she came downstairs. And I heard your conversation." 

He flinches automatically, his finger pressing the button for the shutter without his approval. 

"I'm sorry," he says. He lowers the camera, a gesture of—something. "I didn't know, I—I'm not a thief, Raven." 

She says nothing, simply continuing to _look_ at him. He's growing steadily more uncomfortable by the minute, so of course he turns to alcohol: "Would you like a drink? I have some whisky sitting in my desk, we could have a drink."

Raven laughs slightly, humorlessly, shakes her head. "No," she says, looking out the window. She sounds tired, as tired as Charles feels. "No," she repeats. 

"Raven—" he tries.

"Just take my picture," she snaps, fixing him with a look that is both furious and vulnerable, a single tear trembling on her lashes. He reels back from the force of her gaze, the flash of her golden eyes, and finds himself pulling his camera up almost as if in defense. Actually taking the picture is almost an afterthought, the shutter deafeningly loud to Charles's ears.

When he looks up, he has to stop himself from stepping back. Raven has shifted—must have shifted at the same moment Charles snapped her photograph, for him to not have noticed—and adopted an uncomfortably familiar guise: peach, flawless skin, flowing blonde hair, blue eyes still shimmering with unshed tears—though one has escaped, leaving a track down her cheek. She looks slightly older, but this is _his_ Raven, the skin she'd worn every day while they were growing up together, the skin she'd been wearing when he'd seen her last, before she'd vanished into the night. 

He's reaching for her before he even realizes it.

"Raven—" he says quietly, desperately, his voice so pathetic that he wants to cringe. 

"Don't," she says, barely audible. She closes her eyes, allowing a few more tears to spill over, and then says, "Don't," again, stronger this time. 

He nods. Whatever she wants. 

She looks at him carefully, then slowly flickers back to blue. When she's completely back in her true skin, she starts walking to the stairs hesitantly, shooting him warning looks every time she pauses, as if she thinks he's going to run at her to keep her from leaving. 

He won't.

He doesn't.

Hours later, when he's downloading the pictures to his laptop, he pauses on the last photograph. He's not sure how the hell he managed it, but he got her mid-shift, and it's...stunning. It may be the best photograph he's ever taken. 

He can't decide if he should laugh or cry—so he does both.

*

_ present _  


"My boyfriend's here," Charles says conversationally, leaning against the wall outside the hall where his show's currently going on.

"What?" Emma demands, jealousy coloring her thoughts. "Where?" She makes to walk back into the hall, but he grabs her forearm warningly. 

"No need to awaken his caveman instincts, too, darling," he says. "Much more elegant to simply—" He casts his mind into the crowd inside to demonstrate, seeking out the now-familiar beacon of Erik's mind. He doesn't dive in, doesn't even tell Erik that he's hovering there, still not sure of his welcome, but he recognizes the shape of the mind next to Erik's. "He's talking to Raven," he tells Emma, pulling back into himself. It gets harder every time to come back; it's probably proof that he needs to practice more, maybe listen to Emma and start weaning himself off the suppressants entirely. He's already cut back his dose considerably, but maybe it'd be best to go all the way.

Emma takes on a faraway look, her mind reaching into the gallery as well; Charles knows the exact moment she finds Erik (and Raven, presumably), sees the way she stiffens so imperceptibly that anyone not looking for it would have missed it. 

"You've met, actually," he murmurs, unable to resist the dig. 

"No," Emma snaps, whirling on him. "No, I would have remembered; I never forget a mind." Her eyes go distant again for a brief second, and then she adds, "Or a face like _that_. Honey, if I'd known you were into sharks, I'd have taken you to the aquarium a long time ago."

Charles laughs. "Well, all right, you've...conversed." He pauses, then amends, "Corresponded." 

Emma shoots him a blank look, clearly exasperated. He can feel her trying to find a chink in his shields so she can just _take_ what he's getting at, and not have to wait for him to tell her, but he's stronger than she is. He smiles calmly at her, batting her away as if she were a gnat and not one of the most powerful telepaths in the country, if not the world. 

"Online," Charles clarifies. "I believe there was one night where Erik, bless his heart, went into an online chatroom looking for some company, maybe a good wank, and there he met...shall we say, a special someone, who then directed him to the chess tables at the park, where I happened to be." Charles crosses one leg over the other, folding his arms across his chest before leveling a hard look at Emma. The whole situation may have worked out for the best, but that doesn't mean he's not fucking pissed-off about it. 

The instant Emma understands is a beautiful, beautiful moment, and Charles takes a second to write her expression—a lovely cross between furious and horrified—into his memory. 

"Nice job, Cupid," he smirks. He pushes off the wal and makes to walk back inside, but Emma grabs his hand, pulling him back. 

"We need to talk about this," she hisses. 

"No," he says calmly, unyieldingly. "We really don't." He looks pointedly at her hand; she glares, but releases it without protest and lets him walk back inside. 

He can feel her eyes—and her mind—on him the whole time.

*

_ 5 months earlier _  


Emma is bored. Raven is in bed, having collapsed there immediately after getting home from work; with the growing chill in the weather, the café's apparently been overrun, and Raven comes home exhausted more days than not. Emma's tried prodding at Charles's mind, halfway across town and doing who-knows-what, but he's rebuffed her every time, his irritation growing each time until her most recent attempt, to which he'd replied with shooting pain through her head. (She's actually quite proud that she'd managed to work him up to such a state that he'd lash out telepathically, actually _use_ some of his vaunted power for once, but God, that last thing had _hurt_.)

She knows she should stop poking at him, stop trying to attract his attention, but she can't help herself. Something about him draws her in. Even if she's trying not to think about him, her mind will automatically reach out for his, seeking that strange resonance they'd found that day in his studio.

Emma looks guiltily in the direction of the bedroom, where she can see just a hint of Raven's bright red hair, stark against the pristine white linens. She touches her mind to Raven's, smiles at the slow, dreamy quality of her thoughts. Emma stays there for a little while, as if she's dipping her fingers into a river and feeling the water rush over them. She's entirely in love with Raven, she is—truly, madly, deeply. But.

She can't just _ignore_ this connection to Charles. She's never thought of herself as a romantic, not in any sense of the word, but neither is she as hard as she would have others think.

Emma sighs and opens her laptop, settling in further on the couch. She takes a sip of her martini and starts clicking aimlessly around the internet, too restless to linger on any one page for long. She's not quite sure what she's looking for—she's sure as hell not going to do work, and if she reads another negative review of her book, she's going to give up writing for a life of crime. (She'd be a damn good criminal, too.)

She clicks another link, and at first, she thinks it's as useless as all the other ones. But then she sees a small box in the upper-right hand corner of the screen that says, "Mutant and proud? Come chat with random mutants here!"

Emma rolls her eyes. Sites that claim to be "for mutants, by mutants," are unlikely to be so, but it's cute that they're even pretending to try. And the idea of toying with one of the mutant fetishists who are bound to dominate that site is more appealing than any other she's had tonight, so she figures she might as well.

She clicks on the link, which takes her to a site that, aside from the borders featuring random artists' renditions of mutants (all of whom look more colorful and less human than the vast majority of the mutants Emma knows), looks more or less like omegle. She shrugs, clicks the "Text" button under "Start a chat!" and a window pops open.

**You are now chatting with a random mutant. Say hi!**

**You:** hello  
 **Stranger:** hi  
 **Stranger:** how are you?  
 **You:** alright. and you?  
 **Stranger:** not bad thanks

\---

Erik's not sure why he's even on this website; its user interface is pathetically simplistic, its claim that its only users are mutants is almost certainly a lie, and it isn't like he doesn't have plenty of work to do. But he's tired, and a bit lonely, and if he looks at another scan right now and sees another tumor that he can't cut out, or that he can only resect to the point where his patient will die in six months instead of two weeks, he may very likely shake everything around him into pieces. A site like this is more likely than not to piss him off even more—but he can use anger, can channel it into research and practice and saving lives, whereas he doesn't know what to do with frustration and despair, never has. And who knows? Maybe this won't be entirely awful.

Now he just has to figure out what to say. He drums his fingers on the table while he thinks.

 **You:** so  
 **Stranger:** yes?  
 **You:** have you done this before?  
 **Stranger:** now and then. you?  
 **You:** 1st time  
 **Stranger:** a virgin! welcome, what's your name?

Erik rolls his eyes at the virgin comment, but figures that's what he gets for going into a random internet chat with a stranger. He debates for a few seconds if he should give his actual name, and then figures that it doesn't really matter all that much, anyway. And if he picks up a crazy stalker—well. It wouldn't be the first time. It isn't as if he can't handle himself.

 **You:** erik  
 **Stranger:** hello erik  
 **You:** what's yours?

\---

Emma tilts her head. She sips at her martini and stares at the screen, pondering. She _could_ give her own name, and it's not as if whoever this Erik is would be able to find her—Emma's a common enough name—but, she thinks with a smirk, she could also get even more fun out of this and pretend to be...

 **You:** charles

Emma takes another sip.

 **Stranger:** nice to meet you charles  
 **You:** you too

There's a brief pause, and then:

"All right," Emma says. They've dispensed with the usual pleasantries; now it's time to up the ante.

 **You:** so, erik  
 **You:** tell me about yourself

\---

Erik almost laughs at the screen; this is turning into a very awkward sort of first date. He steeples his fingers and tries to decide how best to describe himself. What had he overheard that OR nurse saying about him the other day? Oh, yes.

 **You:** tall, dark, handsome  
 **Stranger:** my kind of man ;)

This time, Erik does laugh.

 **Stranger:** your power?  
 **You:** metallokinesis, magnetic field manipulation  
 **Stranger:** so you're handy around the house

Erik blinks. Not what he'd been expecting.

 **You:** sure  
 **Stranger:** you can hammer me any time ;)

He rolls his eyes.

 **You:** ok  
 **You:** what's your power?  
 **Stranger:** telepath

Oh, now _that's_ interesting, and likely evidence that Erik is actually talking to a mutant. Few people are going to pretend to be telepaths; popular culture considers it much sexier to be a shifter, or someone with wings. Telepaths are most frequently the villains in movies and television shows—there had been that one short-lived show with the telepathic FBI officer, but it hadn't lasted more than half a season, stymied by backlash about Miranda Rights and the Fifth Amendment.

Beyond that, though, finding a telepath here is...unexpected. Erik's met telepaths, and knows they aren't particularly fond of long-distance interactions with others. Text communication—semi-anonymous text communication, at that—is so many degrees removed from speaking in person that most of them prefer not to use it.

Erik grins. 

**You:** so you can kill me with your brain  
 **Stranger:** only if you were very very bad

Erik raises an eyebrow and prepares to type something cutting when the phone rings, startling him.

 **You:** afsd  
 **Stranger:** why, erik, do you find that attractive?

And all right, maybe Erik does, but he can't think about that right now. He fumbles for the receiver, picking it up and typing with his other hand.

 **You:** brb phone

"Dr. Lehnsherr?" It's the oncologist he's been working with, the one who operated with him today. "We got the lab's biopsy results. I've just sent them over to you."

"How do they look?"

"Better than we expected, though you should probably see for yourself."

Erik heaves a sigh. Well, that's a welcome relief. 

"Thanks," he says. "I'll take a look and call you back."

"Sure." The oncologist hangs up.

Erik replaces the receiver and turns his attention back to the computer screen. Hopefully 'Charles' hasn't left.

 **You:** back sorry  
 **You:** sure

He waits a moment, and then decides that if they're actually going to cybersex (because that's clearly what 'Charles' is angling for), he might as well ask.

 **You:** describe yourself

\---

Emma smiles to herself. This is turning out to be more fun than she'd anticipated.

 **You:** fit, brown hair, blue eyes, cocksucking mouth  
 **Stranger:** you like sucking cock?

Emma laughs.

 **You:** I LOVE IT  
 **You:** come on, fuckboy, give it to me  
 **You:** get it out

\---

"Shit," Erik breathes. This has escalated quickly—not that he's complaining. He looks around furtively; it doesn't look like anyone is paying any attention to him, but he still gets up to close the blinds of his office's windows. He pulls out his cock, not quite believing he's doing this at work. Of course, that only makes it hotter; his cock is already half-hard when he closes his hand around it.

 **You:** okay  
 **Stranger:** put me on my knees  
 **You:** k  
 **Stranger:** fuck my face

Erik lets out his breath in a long hiss and squeezes his cock before starting to stroke it slowly.

 **You:** yes  
 **Stranger:** fuck me until you come down my throat and i swallow it all like a come-hungry slut

"G-d." Erik starts to jerk himself a little faster, just enough to get him fully hard.

 **You:** yes  
 **You:** then?

\---

Emma takes another sip of her drink. What next, indeed. She thinks for a moment, tapping her fingers against her lips.

Then it comes to her: Mutations. Of course. Charles is obsessed with them, would probably be unbelievably turned on by the idea of anyone using them in bed.

 **You:** you use your powers on me  
 **You:** hold me down, tease me, don't let me come  
 **You:** until i'm begging for it

And now _Emma's_ turned on by the idea of Charles begging to be fucked. She can just imagine him, too, held down by her powers, able to struggle a little bit, pleading with her in that posh British accent, completely wrecked, his telepathy bleeding out all over the room, the street, the entire city—

The ping of a new message interrupts her reverie. She shakes herself and looks guiltily over at Raven, who is still sleeping soundly. Then she takes a large gulp of her martini, finishing it, before looking back at the screen.

 **Stranger:** ok

\---

At this point, Erik is so turned-on that he has to stop touching himself. The thought of holding down this stranger with his powers, having that much control over him, is unbelievably tantalizing—but there's something he wants almost more.

So he takes over.

 **You:** and then i still don't let you come  
 **You:** and then you use your powers on me and make me  
 **You:** take complete control and use me to get off

He takes a deep breath and flattens his palm against his crotch, trying to hold himself back while he tries to think of anything he might want to add.

The computer pings.

 **Stranger:** yesss  
 **Stranger:** hold on have to type with one hand am coming right now

Erik exhales heavily and reaches down to stroke himself. He has to bite back a groan when his fingers close around his shaft; he's close, so close, just a little more—

 **Stranger:** as;fkljawprouasflkjasf;laflk;f

Erik laughs breathlessly even as he picks up his speed, flicking his thumb into his slit with every pass up. He reaches over to his desk and grabs a wad of tissues.

 **Stranger:** aj;sdfkjalsf;lajksf;jkkghfhgfsgfsahgflh;jhldjtsjflh;

\---

Emma maintains an impassive look on her face as she smashes her fingers on the keyboard. She _hopes_ the pathetic soul on the other end is getting himself off; that would be too hilarious for words.

She types one last line of gibberish; her lips quirk.

 **You:** as;ldfkjas;dlfjasdf;ljasdflkfsaf

\---

Erik closes his eyes and lets his mouth fall open as he comes into the tissues, right after Charles sends his third line of incomprehensible text. He flops back into his chair heavily, taking a minute to breathe.

Then he sits up, cleaning himself up carefully and tucking himself back into his pants. He glances at the screen; Charles hasn't said anything more. All right, so it's Erik's turn.

 **You:** was it good?  
 **Stranger:** no

"Are you for real?" Erik laughs to himself. He doesn't realize he's sent it until he hears the ping.

\---

 **Stranger:** are you for real?

Emma snorts. _Oh, honey, if only you knew._

She looks off to the side, crossing her ankles and calmly tapping one of her toes against the floor. What next, what next...

Then inspiration strikes. She laughs to herself as she types:

 **You:** MEET ME

\---

Erik blinks at the screen. He can't be serious. 

**You:** when?  
 **Stranger:** NOW

He stares. Well, that's eager.

 **You:** can't. dr. have to do rounds

Then he shrugs. He might as well go for broke.

 **You:** tomorrow 12 pm, where?

\---

Emma thinks for a moment. She's been keeping track of Charles for long enough that she knows his routines, knows where she's most likely to find him at any point in the day. Noon on a Thursday...oh, yes. Noon on any day, really.

 **You:** the park. chess tables  
 **You:** and then HOTEL

\---

Erik shakes his head at the screen. Whoever Charles is, he's very forward. Erik has to admit he's a bit drawn to that, which is the only reason he's agreeing to this ridiculous notion in the first place.

 **You:** ok  
 **You:** how will you know me?  
 **Stranger:** bring the white coat

Erik snorts. Roleplay, then, is it? He can work with that.

He looks at the clock and sighs. Time to get back to work.

 **You:** ok. bye charles!  
 **Stranger:** bye erik! xox  
 **You:** xxxxx

*

_present_   


When Emma glides back into the gallery, Raven is there, waiting by the doorway.

"Ready to go?" Emma asks. Raven nods, and slides her hand into Emma's proffered one. She doesn't need a coat—her mutation keeps her from really feeling the cold—but she ripples one into existence anyway, a sleek black peacoat with a long belt that goes perfectly with her dangling earrings. Emma smiles and strokes Raven's palm with her thumb before squeezing her hand, sending her a burst of affection.

"Thank you for bringing me," Raven says, as they walk down the stairs to the street entrance. 

"You were invited," Emma reminds her. "And for good reason: your picture was the best, by a long shot."

"Yes," Raven says quietly. She pauses on the stairs and looks back up, her expression far away. 

Neither she nor Charles has let slip any detail of their past relationship to Emma, and Emma's given up trying. Raven shuts down any time Charles's name is mentioned, her mind sealing itself more firmly than a steel trap (though that's been one mystery answered: Raven's shielding is _identical_ to Charles's), and Charles has made it abundantly clear that if Emma so much as thinks about shoving past his barriers, he won't hesitate to turn her inside out. (It's strange, to have finally found a telepath stronger than herself; with most people, Emma would simply laugh and brush off such a threat, but she knows Charles can actually make good on his. Whether he actually would is immaterial; it's not worth the risk.)

"Hey," Emma says gently, nudging Raven with her hip. She gently touches Raven's mind at the same time, a mental kiss. She then turns and presses a real kiss to Raven's cheek. 

Raven smiles slowly, turning her head to return the kiss. "Hey," she says. "Sorry about that." 

"Don't worry about it," Emma says. She laughs and brushes another kiss against Raven's lips. "It's okay, we're free of all those awful people."

"Ugh," Raven agrees. She starts walking down the stairs again. Emma follows her sedately, keeping their fingers intertwined. "Who _were_ they? Where did they all come from?"

"Who knows," Emma says, deadpan. "From under a rock, for all I care. Idiots and sycophants, every one."

"You forgot the perverts," Raven says with a sharp-edged grin. 

"Oh, no, sugar, I could never forget the perverts." Emma grimaces. "Nice little constant soundtrack in my head." She tilts her head at Raven. "Much as I prefer you blue, I'm kind of glad you decided not to do that tonight."

Raven sighs and pulls her hand out of Emma's. "You don't have to protect me from the world, you know," she says quietly, a little bitter. _I was doing just fine before you._

 _You were hit by a car because you couldn't remember that we drive on the right side of the street here_ , Emma says, her tone fond; but rather than relaxing Raven, it has the opposite effect. Raven crosses her arms across her chest, her hair rippling to black as she starts walking a little faster. Emma picks up her own pace, moving at a speed dangerous for the heels she's wearing (well, for anyone who isn't her; Emma's been walking in heels practically since the first time she stood up on her own). 

_Raven, wait_ , she says. _I didn't mean anything by it, come on—_

 _You did_ , the answer comes, harsh and angry. 

_Raven—_

Raven comes to a sudden stop the instant she steps out of the building; Emma almost isn't able to sidestep her. The cold night air swirls around them, biting. Emma pulls her capelet a little tighter and contemplates flicking to diamond, but Raven will read too much into that. 

_I'm not a child_ , Raven snaps. _You don't have to keep treating me like one._

"I'm not trying to," Emma says. Her voice sounds entirely too loud, even though she knows it barely carries over the blaring sounds of the city's Friday night traffic. She takes a risk and grabs Raven's hand; Raven doesn't immediately pull away, which is...progress. "Sugar, you know I love you." 

"I know," Raven says, her shoulders slumping and her hair slowly changing back to blonde, one inch at a time. She turns her head and presses a kiss to the corner of Emma's mouth. "I love you, too. But that doesn't mean I treat you like a pet." 

"I don't—"

"Sometimes," Raven says softly, gently, "you really do." It's not even accusing, this time; it's just resigned. 

She releases Emma's hand, though she squeezes it before letting go, and steps off the curb to hail a cab. One pulls over almost immediately, the driver thinking loudly about Raven's blonde hair and her fabulous curves, obvious even under her coat, the shapely legs that seem to go on forever. 

Emma steps forward to stand directly behind Raven even as she stomps down on the instinct that tells her to blank him, make him homosexual, change him so he doesn't even try to come near Raven. Raven's right; she can take care of herself. Emma's seen her nearly break the arm of a man who tried to pinch her ass, and punch another one in the face when he wouldn't stop making eyes at her even when she made it clear she wasn't interested. If the cab driver tries anything, Raven will bend him around his steering wheel without even blinking an eye. 

"Where to?" the driver asks, his voice heavy with interest, his eyes clearly sweeping Raven up and down. 

Raven rolls her eyes almost imperceptibly before giving their address. She opens the cab's back door, then pauses and turns to look at Emma, her hand resting on the top of the car door. 

"You're sure you don't want me to come with you." 

Emma nods. "Positive. I want to be alone for this." 

Raven looks at her carefully, too carefully; Emma feels uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her now-gold eyes. (Raven swears she can see more clearly with her natural eyes, that everything's sharper, as if a thin layer of film has been lifted.)

"Okay," she says, finally. She smiles faintly. "Call me when you get there. And if you need anything. And just"—she sighs—"just call me, okay?"

"I promise," Emma says. She leans in and kisses Raven lightly. "Now go on, sugar. I'll see you Sunday night." 

They kiss again, and then Raven steps into the cab and shuts the door behind her. Her eyes don't leave Emma for a second. 

_I love you_ , Raven thinks. 

_Love you too, sugar_. Emma sends the sense of a caress, a fleeting brush of skin on skin, and Raven smiles as the cab pulls away. 

Emma stares after her, watching the cab's taillights as it pulls up to the traffic light at the next corner and turns left. As soon as it's gone, she turns around and signals a cab for herself.

And then there's a pulse from behind her, in the gallery upstairs. Without even thinking about it, she turns to look up at the building, staring at the second floor as if she can see through the layers of concrete, see the people still moving around and looking at Charles's photographs, hear the whispers of fabric and the indistinct murmuring of multiple overlapping conversations—

She waves off the taxi that's pulled over, ignoring the driver's frustrated, "Make up your damn mind, lady!" and takes a few steps forward, still fixated on the second-floor windows. 

Another whisper of Charles's mind against hers decides it, and she strides confidently back into the gallery, ignoring the guilt coiling in the back of her head, hovering right next to the ever-fading impression of Raven's mind, fainter with every second as it speeds away home.

*

_6 hours earlier_  


"You've got everything?" Raven calls from the bathroom, where she's putting the finishing touches on tonight's face. She doesn't wear makeup, but she'll spend fifteen minutes perfecting the arch of her brow, deciding on tattoos (or not), fussing with the width of her nose relative to her lips.

"For the tenth time, _yes_ ," Emma calls back, pinning yet another of her curls and then assessing herself in their bedroom mirror. She turns to face the bathroom. "I don't need to take much, anyway; I've got plenty of things still at the house." 

Raven sighs loudly and comes to stand in the doorway, her nail polish still flickering through every color of the spectrum at a dizzying speed. She's blonde tonight, which is...surprising. Raven isn't often blonde; she always makes slightly off-color jokes about people thinking she and Emma are related instead of dating. (It's not the real reason, of course, but Emma's never managed to figure that one out, and Raven refuses to tell her.) More surprisingly, Raven's face is one Emma's only seen a few times before—it's the face she had worn when they'd met, though it looks...a little different, in a way Emma can't quite pinpoint. 

"I wish you'd let me come with you," she says, the hem of her blue dress lengthening to mid-calf before changing to end right above the knee. 

"Sugar, we've discussed this," Emma says, walking over to the bed. "It's only for the weekend. And I'm not subjecting you to my family." She picks up the dress she'd laid out earlier—pristine white, floor-length, of course; she's pulling out all the stops for tonight—and steps into it carefully, reveling in the feel of the silk against her skin. She turns her back to Raven, who's been watching her the whole time, sending constant thoughts of arousal and attraction. "Zip me up?" she asks, looking over her shoulder. Raven steps forward, a hair's breadth from pressing up against Emma, and pulls the zipper up slowly, tooth by tooth. 

"I don't understand why you need to be alone." 

"To think," Emma sighs, turning around and leaning up to kiss Raven's temple. "To grieve."

Raven rolls her eyes. "You are such a writer."

Emma laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. "If only."

They're silent for a few moments, just looking at each other, their fingers barely touching. Then the tenor of Raven's thoughts shifts, and she looks away.

"What?" Emma asks gently, stroking her index finger along the side of Raven's hand. 

"I'm waiting," Raven says, barely audible, turning her head and locking eyes with Emma. She looks incredibly fragile, strangely vulnerable in a way Emma's never seen before.

"Waiting for what?" 

Raven's eyes are impossibly blue and wide. "Waiting for you to leave me." 

"What are you talking about?" Emma asks, even as her mind flashes guiltily to Charles for a moment. But Charles won't give her the time of day, no matter how hard she tries; Raven has nothing to worry about on that front. "I'm completely in love with you, you know that."

Raven smiles crookedly. "Sure." She places a hand on Emma's cheek, and gives her another piercing look, as if she's seeing into the deepest corners of Emma's soul. "Why don't you want me to come with you?"

"I told you, my family—"

"I don't give a fuck about your family," Raven says. "Why won't you let me be there for you?" Her other hand comes up, her palms framing Emma's face, and they press in a little. Raven continues, "Why won't you let me love you?"

"Sugar—"

Raven shakes her head and kisses Emma firmly, her mind saying—practically shouting— _why can't you see, why won't you see, why why why I'm here..._

Emma doesn't respond; if she did, Raven would shut down and shut her out. These aren't thoughts she's meant to hear, loudly as Raven is broadcasting them. Instead, she kisses Raven even harder, just this edge of rough, sliding her arms around Raven's waist and holding her tightly. 

She loves Raven, she does. How could Raven ever think otherwise? How could Raven think she doesn't see how much Raven loves her, that she doesn't bask in the warm glow of it?

She ignores that guilty corner of her mind, the one sitting next to the part of Emma's brain that can't quite stop questing for Charles Xavier's. Raven is here, Raven loves her, Raven isn't scared of herself. 

_I love you_ , she sends. 

_You'd damn well better, sugar_ , Raven responds, biting at Emma's lip. Then, more softly, as she pulls back and presses her forehead to Emma's: _I love you, too._

They kiss again. 

"Let's finish getting ready and go," Emma says. "I'll be back before you know it, you'll see."

"Yeah," Raven says, stepping back out of the circle of Emma's arms. She shifts to blue for a second, then back to blonde—a reset, she calls it—and smooths the skirt of her dress—it goes all the way down to the floor now, stands out brilliantly against the deep red of Raven's nails. "Yeah." 

Then she smiles. 

"Come on, sugar. Let's go see the show."

*

_ present _  


Things in the gallery are starting to slow down; the food ran out about ten minutes ago, there are at most two bottles of champagne remaining, and the big pieces, the ones that multiple dealers and collectors wanted to buy, have all been sold. The only exception is Raven's picture, and Charles can't quite explain to anyone but himself why he hasn't been willing to part with it. It's certainly one of the most popular photographs in the collection, but no one's seemed...right for it, yet.

Erik is across the room, looking determinedly bored as yet another older lady decked out in far too much jewelry tries to make conversation with him about the Art. Charles suppresses a smile at Erik's long-suffering expression. At least he's not looking homicidal, which is something. 

Erik looks up from his conversation and catches Charles's eye; he rolls his eyes dramatically, and this time, Charles has to raise his hand to cover his smile. 

_Please tell me we're leaving soon_ , Erik says. _I don't think I can smile and nod and pretend to be polite much longer before I start making elaborate metal structures out of crucial supporting beams._

_Darling, you're hardly smiling or nodding_ , Charles points out, maybe a bit more fond than he ought to be. _But yes, we should be leaving soon; things are winding down._

 _Good_ , Erik replies tersely. He returns half his attention to the woman beside him, who is still gesticulating wildly, "accidentally" brushing Erik's arm a few too many times for it to truly be unintentional. Charles bites his lip, holding in his laughter as he turns to continue bidding people goodbye.

He's in the middle of thanking the gallery's assistant manager profusely for all her help and promising her that yes, he'll make sure everything gets cleaned up properly before he heads out, and yes, he'll keep in touch, when he feels a brush against his mind. He turns involuntarily and sees Emma coming back up the stairs—without Raven. 

He resists the urge to close his eyes and sigh. Instead, he takes the assistant manager's hand in both of his and kisses the back of it, smirking a little at the flush that appears high on her cheeks. "Thank you again, darling," he says. "I'll call you on Monday and we'll work out all the remaining details, if that's all right?"

"Definitely," she replies, smiling widely at him as she takes back her hand. "And congratulations again."

"Thank you," he murmurs, ducking his head. When he looks up, the assistant manager has gone, and Emma's standing in front of him, arms crossed across her chest, her expression a strange mix of calm and uncertainty. 

"I thought you'd left," he says quietly. He jerks his head to indicate that she should follow him out of the room, to where they'd been talking earlier, and he does, her heels tapping softly against the hard tile floor. Once they're out of sight of the main gallery, he leans against the wall and looks at her coolly. "Well?"

"I'm going to miss my train," she says. 

"Then why are you still here?" 

"I didn't like the way we left things." 

Charles sighs. "There _is_ no we, Emma. There's just you, stalking me all over the city, and I have to admit: it's getting old."

Emma rolls her eyes. "I don't _stalk_ you." 

"Please, tell me what it is, then." Charles folds his arms. "You keep popping up in places where I am, and...watching me, monitoring me with your mind, and then ducking away whenever it looks like I'm actually going to initiate contact with you."

"I'm _observing_ ," Emma says. "But you don't really mind; you miss me when I'm not there." 

Charles raises an eyebrow. "I don't."

"You look for me if I'm not there." 

It's not untrue, but— "And how would you know that?" 

"Because I _am_ there," she admits, sounding slightly exasperated with herself as well as with him. "Observing from a distance. Stalking, if you prefer, though that's such an ugly term." 

Charles can't keep himself from edging away slightly, though he also can't bring himself to get too far. His mind keeps butting up against hers, just barely touching. "Has anyone ever told you that you're monumentally creepy?" 

"It's only for you," she says, looking away and biting her lip. "I don't even know why at this point, but I...think I need you." 

"How very flattering," he says. He's not entirely sarcastic; the problem is that he's drawn to Emma, too. He can't _help_ looking for her when he goes out. At this point, it's almost comforting to see her ducking around a corner, never really able to hide properly in the all-white clothes she always wears, or to feel the touch of her mind against his, cold and hard but still always gentle, a little brilliant. Even now, his mind keeps trying to connect to hers, and he's certain they've shared dreams more than once over the past year. 

But...she has Raven, and he has Erik. Erik, who loves him, and who Charles thinks he might love in return, though it's early days yet. 

Emma's upper lip curls as she hears the shift in Charles's thoughts. "Come on, you can't really prefer him to me," she says. "He's utterly boring." 

"He's a neurosurgeon," Charles retorts. "I doubt I know anyone who'd agree with you on that point." 

"It's terribly boring that you're with _him_ ," Emma amends. 

"Because a telepath being with a telepath is so much more interesting than a telepath being with someone who repairs people's brains on a daily basis," Charles says sharply. "Besides, his mutation is _amazing_ , really." She gives him a hard look. 

"I saw the picture," she says dismissively. Then she adds, waving a hand, "He doesn't challenge you the way you want." 

Charles bristles at the insult to Erik, but her words stay with him even as he replies, utterly flat, "And I suppose you know exactly what I want." 

"Oh, honey," she laughs. "I've been in your head." Almost in demonstration, her telepathy flexes, her mind spreading outward just enough to completely encompass the edges of Charles's, ducking in through the Emma-shaped gap in his shields that he hasn't quite figured out how to close. _I know what you want_ , she says, leaning in—unable to stop himself, he does too— _and I know what you need._

"And I suppose you're the one to give it to me." 

Emma smirks. "But of course, _darling_ ," she drawls, mimicking his accent. Then she straightens. She closes her hand around his upper arm, directly above the crook of his elbow, and turns him to face her full-on. "Look me in the eye and tell me you're not in love with me."

"I'm not in love with you," Charles says calmly, even as he locks the turbulence of his thoughts under the strongest barrier he can make. He's not in love with her, certainly—but he could be, and that's the problem. 

She smiles and shakes her head, looking entirely too smug for his liking. 

"See," she says quietly, pointing at him. "You just lied." 

He gives her his most withering look, trying to convey as much disdain as he possibly can. She merely shrugs. 

"You'll come around," she says. "And now I really do have to go." She strides off; Charles finds himself unable to look away, and from the triumphant tone of Emma's thoughts, she's more than aware of this. She pauses at the top of the stairs and looks back at him, then raises a hand and wiggles her fingers in farewell before she descends. 

Charles leans against the side of the wall and listens to her go. He waits until she's in the taxi this time, wanting to be absolutely sure she won't return tonight. As soon as he's sure she's gone, he slumps back against the wall and rubs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. 

After a few seconds, he sighs again and pushes himself off the wall, heading back inside the gallery. Nearly as soon as he enters, he's accosted by Erik. 

"Hello, stranger," Erik says quietly. He offers Charles a flute of champagne. Charles could kiss him—does, in fact, leaning up and brushing his lips over Erik's cheek. 

"Hey," Charles replies, taking the flute gratefully and downing half of it in one go. 

"Intense conversation?" Erik asks, his tone neutral.

Charles looks up at Erik carefully, trying to gauge his mood. Erik _appears_ calm, and sounds calm, but the fragments of his mind that Charles allows himself to feel are anything but. Charles could decipher them if he tried, but he's not sure he wants to. It's one thing to know that Erik is a jealous boyfriend; it's another thing entirely to feel it, especially when Erik's jealousy isn't wholly unfounded.

Charles takes another gulp of his champagne, finishing it, and then sets it aside on a nearby table so he can take Erik's free hand in both of his.

"Her mother died," he says. It's true, but they'd never actually discussed it. Emma had let it slip mentally to Charles when she'd mentioned being late for her train; he'd touched her mind gently, once, in silent sympathy. 

"Mm," Erik grunts, taking a sip of his champagne. His thumb gently strokes the back of Charles's hand, though, so he's not too upset. Charles allows himself a smile, and Erik returns it, though it's not the full-toothed grin that Charles loves so much.

"Oh, darling," Charles says, his voice faintly teasing, "don't tell me you were jealous."

"Maybe a little," Erik grudgingly admits. "You're very pretty, she wouldn't be the first person I'd have to beat off with a stick."

Charles rolls his eyes. "So uncouth."

Erik laughs and kisses Charles's temple. "Ah, but that's why you like me." 

"Maybe a little," Charles echoes. "But I'd rather it didn't come to blows, please." 

Erik shrugs and drinks his champagne. "If it did, I could take her, anyway."

"She can turn to diamond, love," Charles says. He steals the champagne flute from Erik's hand and takes a large sip, ignoring his boyfriend's glare. "I think she'd be a bit harder to battle than you seem to be anticipating."

"Even diamonds can crack," Erik points out, stealing his glass back. "You just have to know where to hit." 

Charles sighs. "Can we not talk about this anymore, please? You're not to fight her; there's no reason to, anyway." 

"I know," Erik says, his voice suddenly tender. "I do." He kisses Charles's cheek. "I'm the one who got you, after all."

Charles hums in acknowledgement, turning his head to buss a kiss against Erik's lips. Erik chases after him and kisses him more fully, though he keeps things relatively light for the time being, mindful that they're still in public. 

"Does she know we call her Cupid?" Erik asks, a little smugly, when they pull apart. He deposits one last kiss on Charles's lips before straightening up and taking a sip of his champagne. 

"No," Charles lies smoothly, frowning at the sudden intrusion of Emma back into a moment that was, briefly, only for the two of them. "That's our joke." 

Erik smiles and presses his lips to Charles's temple again, seemingly ignorant of Charles's pique. "True." 

They're interrupted by the last few well-wishers wanting to say goodbye, all of them overly effusive in their praise of Charles and his work, handing him their cards and demanding he inform them of any future exhibitions. (They don't really mean it; few people tonight have been as excited as they have said they are, and while it's frustrating, Charles can't quite say he's surprised. Erik hadn't been wrong about many of the people here tonight only attending so they could pretend to be tolerant and knowledgeable about mutants. But there were also enough people who actually cared about what Charles was depicting that he feels he can consider the show a relative success—especially considering he's managed to avoid losing money on it, which he feels is something of an achievement.) 

Thankfully, Erik keeps silent while Charles sees off the remaining guests, though Charles can feel his disdain and irritation bubbling just below the surface. When the last person has gone—with the exception of the gallery manager and the caterers, who are handling the cleanup—Charles turns to Erik and kisses his cheek. 

"Thank you, darling," he says. "I know you didn't really want to come, and I know it's been incredibly hard for you to keep from throwing some of these people bodily across the room. I appreciate that you're here, and that you didn't incite a lawsuit." 

"Of course I came," Erik says. He sets aside his now-finished champagne and wraps his arms firmly around Charles's waist, leaning down to press his forehead against Charles's. "You're my boyfriend, I'm supposed to support you. And anyway, I do think your stuff is amazing. For the most part." 

Charles rolls his eyes. "Keeping my head from getting inflated, are we?"

"Someone's got to do it, after all the praise everyone's been heaping on you tonight," Erik says. He kisses Charles lightly. Then, his expression turning predatory, he leans in even closer. "Now, where's my reward for being a good boy?" 

Charles shakes his head and smacks Erik lightly on the arm, halting the hand sliding down Charles's back in its tracks. One-track mind, honestly. He pulls back, ducking neatly out of Erik's grasp. 

"I'll think about it," he says, belying himself with a surreptitious squeeze to Erik's arse. Erik growls low in his throat and reaches for Charles, but Charles dances out of his way with another laugh. 

"Later," he promises, darting in to press a quick kiss to Erik's cheek before hurrying away to check in with the manager and make sure everything's in order.

"I'm holding you to that!" Erik calls after him. 

Charles shoots a look back at Erik over his shoulder. _You always do._

*

_ 5 months earlier _  


Erik checks his watch. Five to noon. He picks up his stride; he can't be late, not for this. He's not even sure if this is real, if this will actually happen, but it's worth a shot, at the very least. This whole experience feels incredibly surreal.

He rounds the corner and comes upon the chess tables in the park. He starts looking around. Most of the people here are old men—a few elderly women—and there appear to be a few teens playing hooky on a nearby bench. But none of them appears to be the person Erik's looking for...

And then Erik sees him. 

Wavy brown hair, only a tousle away from falling into his pale face, bright blue eyes, and...oh, he wasn't lying about that mouth. He's biting his lower lip right now, looking deep in thought as he contemplates the chessboard in front of him. He's absolutely stunning; Erik had thought maybe he'd end up meeting someone much older, or perhaps even a woman, but it looks like his luck has held. 

Erik walks over and sits down confidently in the empty chair opposite the man.

"Charles," he greets.

The man looks up. He seems a little startled; he must have been really immersed in his game. 

"Yes?" Charles says. His eyes flicker over Erik, taking him in. Erik smirks as he leans back in his chair, knowing Charles can't be displeased with what he sees. 

"I'm Erik." 

Charles smiles blandly. "Hello, Erik." He doesn't offer his hand, or say anything else; he simply looks expectantly at Erik, waiting for...something, but what?

Oh, right. There had been a condition. 

"I've got the white coat," Erik says, unbuttoning his overcoat and pushing it open, showing his doctor's coat underneath. 

"So I see," Charles says. His tone is still neutral, his face expressionless, and now Erik's wondering...but this man responded when Erik called him Charles, so he _must_ be the man from last night. Maybe he's trying to keep up appearances because they're in public.

After an exceedingly awkward moment, Charles raises an eyebrow and nods at the table. Erik looks down, and realizes: the pieces in front of him are white. His move.

He opens with his queen's pawn, and then looks at his watch. They won't have time for a game _and_ anything else, so he'd better speak up before they get too far into this.

"You mentioned a hotel," Erik said. Charles's fingers, already closing around his knight, fumble, and he looks up at Erik with wide eyes. "No rush!" Erik adds hastily. Won't do to come off as some sort of sex-crazed pervert. He looks at his watch again, and then says, "Well, no, all right, there is some rush, I'm due in surgery at three. But." 

Charles abandons the knight and leans forward with what looks like concern. "Are you having an operation?" he asks, his brow furrowing. Erik kind of wants to lean forward and kiss that furrow, smooth it away. Later, maybe. 

Charles's frown deepens.

"No," Erik says. "I'm the one performing the operation. I'm a neurosurgeon." 

"Oh, how fascinating!" Charles exclaims, his face brightening. He sits back a little, looking slightly more at ease. "That must be a very exciting job."

"It has its moments," Erik admits. He tilts his head and indicates Charles should get on with his move. Charles, appearing to have thought better of his knight strategy, advances one of his pawns. They play in silence for a few moves; Erik tries to keep from checking his watch too impatiently, but it's difficult. He does actually want time to...do something with Charles, whatever it may be. Chess is interesting enough, but the prospect of pre-surgery sex is certainly much more promising. 

Charles flinches, knocking over his rook. "Sorry, sorry," he says. "I..." He blinks at Erik, his gaze intent. "I'm terribly sorry, I don't seem to remember you. Do you mind reminding me of how we know each other?"

"You _are_ Charles, yes?" Erik says. This isn't going the way he'd thought it would. 

"Ye-es," Charles says hesitantly. "Did I...photograph you, did we meet at a party? Really, I'm very sorry, I just don't seem to know how I know you, and you seem to be...very familiar with me." 

"Oh, don't play games," Erik huffs, frustrated. Now he's just playing coy; if he didn't like Erik, or had changed his mind, he could have said something instead of putting on this know-nothing act. "You had no trouble being familiar with me last night." 

"I beg your pardon?" Charles draws himself up, looking haughty and offended, and Erik rolls his eyes. 

He quotes, "'Fuck my face, use your powers on me, come-hungry slut...'" Erik trails off; Charles doesn't look like he remembers any of this, and is staring at Erik as if he's debating whether to call the police or an insane asylum. Erik closes his eyes and runs his hand over his face. "And now I feel like a pervert. Wonderful." 

"I'm sorry," Charles says gently. "I think you must have me confused with someone else." 

"No, I swear," Erik says. "You were online last night, you said things—oh!" He sits up straight, having just remembered. "You said you were a telepath, you can read me, see that I'm telling the truth—"

Now Charles looks terrified. He edges back in his chair as far as he can, leaning away from Erik. 

"Who told you that?" he asks. 

"You!" Erik says. "You, in a chat—" He pauses; Charles has brought his hand to his temple with a frown, and Erik can _feel_ something—or, more accurately, some _one_ , he supposes—in his head. He pushes the memories of last night to the forefront, and has the distinct sense of Charles rummaging through them. And then, just as suddenly, Charles is no longer in Erik's mind; he slumps back, breathing heavily. 

"Oh, my friend," Charles says, shaking his head. "I'm terribly sorry, but I think you've been the victim of a practical joke." 

Erik blinks. "Sorry?"

"There's this woman," Charles says. "Emma Frost. She's...well, she's a little bit obsessed with me, to not put too fine a point on it." He sighs. "Last night, I think she was...pretending to be me, in chat, with you." 

Erik shakes his head. "No, that's not—" He cuts off abruptly. Then, after thinking for a moment, he asks, "Where were you last night between six-thirty and seven?"

"Not on the internet, I assure you," Charles says, with a crooked smile. "Other than that, none of your business." 

"But I was talking to _someone_ —to you," Erik insists.

"Someone pretending to be me," Charles corrects.

"You're sure it wasn't you?"

"I'm afraid not." 

Erik sighs, collapsing back against the chair. "What a bitch," he spits. Charles shrugs. "How do you know her?"

"I don't, not really," Charles says. "I took her picture one time, for a book she wrote." 

"I hope it sinks without a trace." 

Charles smiles wryly, looking as if he's privy to a joke that Erik's missing out on. "It's on its way." 

"Well, it's nice to know there is _some_ justice in the world," Erik says. He looks away. "I'm really very sorry about the confusion. I didn't mean to..."

"I know," Charles says soothingly. He reaches under the chessboard and takes Erik's hand. Erik looks back up at him. 

"Tell you what." Charles smiles, a little cocky, and Erik feels a swell of attraction. He really is beautiful. "You can make it up to me by finishing our game." He nods down at the chessboard. "After all, you did come all this way." 

Erik squeezes Charles's hand and sits back, sighing dramatically. "I did make all that effort, it's true," he says. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the present he'd picked out in the hospital gift shop immediately before coming here. "I even brought you chocolates."

Charles laughs and takes the box. He opens it and takes one of the chocolates, offering the remaining three to Erik. Erik takes the darkest one and pops it into his mouth. 

"Thank you," Charles says. "That's terribly kind." Then he leans forward, rolling up his sleeves. "Now, are you ready to lose?"

Erik grins; he can never say no to a challenge. He moves another of his pawns forward. 

"Oh, my friend," he teases, borrowing Charles's phrase, "I think you'll find that it is you who is about to lose." 

"We'll see," Charles says, responding immediately with his knight. He smiles brightly at Erik, and—well, maybe the afternoon isn't a complete loss.

\---

An hour later, Erik tips his king over. Charles smirks at him.

"Good game?" he says, offering his hand across the table.

"Good game," Erik says. He glances at his watch and sighs. "And enjoyable as this has been, now I really do have to go."

"Surgery," Charles says with a nod. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Erik sighs. He stands, buttoning his coat, and Charles stands with him. Then Charles raises the heavy-duty camera he's holding at his side, and makes to take a picture of Erik; Erik immediately brings up his hands to hide. 

"Don't," he groans. "I always look like a convict in photographs. Or a pervert." 

"Then they're accurate," Charles quips, lowering the camera slightly. Erik rolls his eyes. "But seriously," Charles says earnestly, raising it again, "please?" He widens his eyes hopefully. 

"No," Erik grits out, though it's incredibly hard to deny that expression anything. 

"Oh, but it's my birthday," Charles says, smiling widely.

Erik gives him an incredulous look. 

"I swear," Charles says. "I can show you my driver's license, if you want." 

Erik sighs and lowers his hands. "Fine," he says grudgingly. Then he has a brainwave. "But only if you'll have dinner with me." 

Charles lowers the camera again and blinks at him. "Dinner?"

"Yes," Erik says. "I'm not taking no for an answer." 

Charles laughs. "Well, then how can I refuse?"

Erik grins as widely as he can; Charles clicks the shutter.

*

_ present _  


Five days after his gallery show, Charles is in his studio for the first time since the exhibition, trying to get things into some semblance of order now that he's finally got his first major show out of the way. The studio itself is a mess, and the process of cleaning it daunting, but it's honestly a relief to get out of the apartment. Erik's been alternating between being incredibly caring and sweet and being jealous and demanding, with no obvious trigger for either state. Charles knows things haven't been easy at the hospital, but they haven't been bad enough to explain Erik's recent viciousness in bed, or the way he's been lashing out whenever Charles uses his telepathy and demanding Charles stay out of his head.

It doesn't help that Charles has been weaning himself off his suppressants in earnest, making it even harder for him to keep his mind in check. Erik has said numerous times that he supports Charles's decision, that Charles shouldn't have to restrict his powers, but his mind has been anything but welcoming. It's not like Erik to keep secrets from Charles, or to be this closed-off, and Charles can't figure out what's going on. 

Strangely, Emma's been mostly quiet, not even bothering to text him while she's been away. He knows she's back in the city now, has been since two nights ago; at this point, his mind's so used to searching for her that he can feel her resonance even halfway across the city, suppressants or no. She did brush her thoughts against his lightly sometime in the middle of the day yesterday, and briefly this morning, but that was it. He'd have expected her to be on his case about his new issues with Erik (because of course she'd have dug to find those), or to keep trying to convince him that she's better for him than Erik is, but...nothing. 

His phone, abandoned on the large table in the middle of the room, buzzes loudly, indicating a new text. He debates ignoring it—it's probably Erik, asking when he's going to be home and (unsubtly) trying to see if Charles will be in the mood tonight (he wasn't last night, and he won't be tonight if Erik storms all over the apartment again, either). Then it buzzes again, and he sighs. If it _is_ Erik, he won't rest until he's got an answer; if it isn't, then Charles should see who it is. 

He walks over and picks it up, glancing at the screen. He blinks; one of the texts is from Erik, as he'd anticipated, but the other is from...Emma. 

_Coffee at your usual place, 30 min? Could use a sympathetic ear._

Charles stares at his phone. She's texted him before, infrequently, but she's never asked him out so baldly—or said she needs him in such a way. It's...tempting. 

He closes his eyes and thinks for a long moment before casting his mind out over the city. Emma's fairly close by, and she notices his presence almost immediately. She nudges him wordlessly, asking again; she does feel tired, and strained, and suddenly, even though he knows he shouldn't see her, shouldn't give in, it's all he wants to do. 

He opens up his text messages again, scrolling past Erik's message asking when he'll be home, and selects Emma's. 

_Yes._

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and hits _Send_.


	2. II - 'Til I Find Somebody New

Charles is sitting on the couch, ostensibly reading a book, but he can't focus on the words. Erik's due home any minute—his flight landed two hours ago—and though he'd told Charles not to wait up, Charles can't sleep, can't put this off any longer. If it's going to happen, it has to be tonight—he promised. 

The front door opens, making Charles jump even though he's been waiting for it for the past thirty minutes. He can hear Erik whistling in the hallway, something tuneless and meandering that makes him even more anxious. 

Charles takes a deep breath and schools his face into a calm expression, shoving his worry down as far as it'll go. When he feels like he can speak without screaming, he reaches his mind out and taps Erik's, ever so gently. 

_Hello,_ he says. He feels Erik smile, hears his rapid footsteps in the hall as he walks to the living room and throws the door open. Charles sets down his book and looks up, making to stand, but he's halted by Erik's quietly projected _No._

"No," Erik repeats, holding up his hand, his fingers spread. "Don't get up." He smiles beatifically. "I want to savor this moment: the first time I come home from a conference to be met by my _husband_." The ring on the fourth finger of Charles's left hand twists a little, sparkling in the dim light of the lamp beside him, tightening momentarily before Erik lets it go. 

Charles smiles faintly before looking down and fiddling with the ring himself. 

"Come here," Erik says, his voice slightly hoarse. Charles goes, stopping just inside arms' reach. Erik's hands come up to rest on Charles's upper arms before he pulls him in close, their bodies pressing against each other. 

"Thank you for staying up, darling," Erik says. His thumbs rub circles on the points of Charles's shoulders. "You wonderful, perfect..." He trails off, looking down at Charles with something like reverence. 

Charles tries not to squirm or pull away, though his insides are twisting. He attempts a smile, and must pull it off, because the tone of Erik's thoughts grows distinctly warmer, and he leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of Charles's mouth. 

"How was the flight?" Charles murmurs, turning his head obligingly so Erik can kiss him fully. 

_Awful_ , Erik thinks wryly. His hands squeeze Charles's shoulders before he pulls back, breaking the kiss. "There was a baby that wouldn't stop screaming, and they ran out of alcohol three rows before they got to me." He grimaces slightly, then kisses Charles again. _Doesn't matter now._

Guilt wells up in Charles, and he kisses Erik harder, throwing himself into it in a way he hasn't done for a while now, glad for once that Erik can't see into his mind. Erik responds with a groan and crushes Charles to him, hungry and fiercely possessive. _I missed you_ floats up from his thoughts. 

_Yes_ , Charles replies. Erik takes it as agreement, and clutches Charles even tighter as his kisses slow down, become tender, and oh, Charles can barely stand it, wants to fall to the floor weeping and begging Erik's forgiveness—

But no. He promised. And he'll hate himself even more if he doesn't do this. 

Charles slows the kiss even further and pulls back until his lips are barely touching Erik's, lingering for a moment before he disconnects their mouths completely. Both men are breathing a little more heavily than usual, and Erik's eyes are dark with lust as they flick down to Charles's mouth. Charles licks his lips unconsciously, making Erik's eyes darken even further, but when Erik ducks his head, he bypasses Charles's lips altogether and starts laying kisses along the side of Charles's neck. Charles tilts his head minutely to grant Erik slightly better access. 

Erik sucks lightly on a particularly sensitive part of Charles's neck (and Charles hates himself for the gasp it inevitably wrings from him), then blows on it, making Charles shiver, his hands tightening around Erik's waist. Erik smirks, lips curving against Charles's skin. He noses his way up to Charles's ear while simultaneously sliding his hand down to palm Charles's arse through his jeans, and breathes, "How about we take this to bed?" 

Charles is so, so tempted. It would be so easy to go to bed with Erik, fuck him, sleep, and wake up in the morning pretending everything's all right, so easy to fall into the same pattern he's been living these past five months. 

He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. Erik nips his ear lightly. 

"Charles?" he asks, a little louder. 

Charles shakes his head. He opens his eyes and releases Erik, taking a step back so he's no longer pressed against Erik's front, so he can't feel the tempting line of Erik's erection anymore. Erik lets him go in return, though his hands hover over Charles's shoulders, not touching, but only just. 

And this is Charles's moment, should be Charles's moment, but instead of starting the conversation they need to have, he only says, "I just took a bath." 

Erik sighs and nods. His hands fall to his sides as he takes a few more steps back, and he smiles—a small smile, an only-for-Charles smile. "Well, I guess I should follow your example, wash off all this travel." 

Charles gives a weak smile. "Sounds like a good idea."

Erik smiles back and starts to walk away. He pauses right before he reaches the door, then turns around. 

"Oh, before I forget," he says, "I got you a present." He flicks his wrist; a small metal box floats up out of his coat pocket. He holds it out to Charles. "Here."

"You really shouldn't have," Charles says, walking over and taking the box. 

"You're right, I shouldn't have," Erik agrees good-naturedly. "But I did anyway, so accept it with grace, won't you?"

Charles rolls his eyes. "Yes, dear, whatever you say, dear." He flips open the lid, and inhales sharply when he sees what's inside. "Erik, these are lovely," he says, his fingers tracing along the edge of the cufflinks—gold with mother-of-pearl, chess pieces, a king and queen. They really are exquisite.

"And then there's this," Erik says, his mind tinged with amusement as he pulls something from his other pocket. "Mystique was in London." 

Charles's head shoots up. What on Earth does he mean? Raven's with Emma, he knows it; why would Erik have seen her in London? 

Then he sees what Erik's holding out to him: it's a postcard, with the photograph of Raven from his gallery show last year. 

"They were selling these in the gift shop at the Tate," Erik explains. "Your book, too. I saw a girl ogling your picture on the jacket—I almost felt like I should beat her off with a stick, the look she had on her face." He grins. "You're famous, darling. I'm so proud." 

Charles smiles up at Erik, feeling slightly shell-shocked. It's like he's seeing Erik for the first time again, remembering why he married him—but it's too little, too late. A few nice presents, a few nice words, can't solve everything, can't solve anything. 

And yet:

"You're wonderful," Charles says, unable to help himself, his voice a little shaky.

"And don't you forget it," Erik smiles, bestowing a kiss on the tip of Charles's nose. "And now I really must go clean up; I'm starting to smell." He kisses Charles one last time, a quick brush of lips, and heads for the door. 

As soon as he's gone, Charles sinks into the armchair beside him and buries his head in his hands. After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his ever-present orange bottle of pills. He shakes one into his hand—then, considering, shakes another one out. He dry-swallows them and puts the bottle away, then grabs his book and starts pretending to read it again as he waits for the suppressants to take effect. 

He can't do this if he's in Erik's head, won't be able to do this if he can feel Erik's love fading away, poisoned by betrayal and hurt. Much simpler to just...drug away his ability to feel it, even if Emma would call him a coward and make disparaging comments about his control. She isn't the one who has to deal with Erik, who feels everything so deeply, so furiously. And to be honest, Charles isn't sure that, if he's in Erik's mind, he'll ever be able to let him go. 

He closes his eyes, letting the faint noise of the shower wash over him, and waits.

\---

Emma closes the door behind her softly, but it's still loud enough to rouse Raven, who's drowsing on the couch in the living room.

"Hey," Raven says blearily, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She casts a glance at the clock on the wall, which reads just going on midnight, and says, "You're home late." 

"Mm," Emma says. She pulls off her white coat and hangs it on the coatrack by the door, avoiding Raven's eye. "Work thing. Drinks with the editor, and you never say no to drinks with the editor." 

She feels vaguely guilty for the lie—drinks had been last night, when Raven was working late—but it's not quite the right moment for the truth.

"Of course not," Raven agrees. She stretches widely and stands up. "How was it?"

"Good," Emma answers, smiling slightly. Raven grins. 

"My girlfriend, the successful journalist," she says. She walks over and smoothes her hands over Emma's dress, leaning in to kiss her. Her mind nudges gently at Emma's, and Emma responds in kind, a sort of mental Eskimo kiss. 

"Not quite successful," Emma demurs, pulling away a little. The flop of her book still burns at her sometimes, though it is true that she's one death or retirement away from becoming assistant editor of the op-ed section of the paper. 

"Almost, though," Raven says. "You're moving up."

"Mm," Emma agrees, kissing Raven again. She slides her hands along Raven's back, tracing over the pattern of scales that she knows so well by now. Raven exhales into Emma's mouth, one hand coming up to cup Emma's face as the other strokes up and down her bare arm. 

"Are you hungry?" Raven asks when they pull apart. "You must be hungry; I'll make you something." She starts walking to the kitchen, and says over her shoulder, "And by 'make something,' I mean 'heat leftovers,' because it's late and I'm tired." 

"No, don't bother," Emma calls after her. "I'm not hungry." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah. I don't need anything." 

"At least have some water, if you've been drinking," Raven says, walking back out with a glass. She presses it into Emma's hand, and the guilt tapping at the back of Emma's mind grows more insistent as she takes an obedient sip. Raven smiles and kisses Emma's cheek lightly, then walks over to the living room and starts tidying up, folding up the blanket she was sleeping under, picking up magazines and books and putting them on the shelf. 

Emma can't stop watching her, is probably staring a little more intensely than she should. She can't do this, she can't, how could she have ever thought she could? She loves Raven, and Raven loves her, and she knows exactly what this will do to Raven. She doesn't want to do this—but she has to. Someone has to pull the plug, and it'll never be Raven. 

Then Raven straightens up and looks at her. Something of what Emma is feeling must be showing in her expression, because the smile slides straight off Raven's face. 

"What?" she asks quietly. 

Emma turns away. She can't bear to look at Raven right now. If she does, she'll cave, the same way she has every time she's thought of doing this before. 

"Emma," Raven says shakily. "What is it?" 

Emma doesn't say anything, still trying to figure out the best way to phrase what she has to say. 

"God damn it, _look_ at me," Raven demands, storming over, magazines slipping from her hands to the floor. She grabs Emma's chin and forces her to face her. _Look at me look at me look at me_ , her mind thrums. " _What_?"

Emma pulls out of Raven's grip roughly, putting some space between them so she can collect her thoughts.

"This is going to hurt," she finally says, stalling for time. Raven's eyes narrow. 

"Just spit it out." 

"I wasn't late because I was out with the editor," Emma says. "I was with Charles. We've been...seeing each other." 

Raven takes a step back, rippling faintly. Her shields slam into place so firmly that Emma almost physically reels from the effect of being shoved back so completely into her own head.

"How long?" Raven asks after a nearly interminable silence, her voice barely above a whisper.

"A year," Emma says. "Since his gallery show."

Raven closes her eyes, her hands balling into fists at her sides. She stops rippling the instant before her eyes shoot open, boring into Emma with a fire Emma's never seen before. 

"Do you love him?" she demands. 

Emma wants to look away, wishes she could, but Raven's gaze holds her fast. 

"Yes," she says softly. "Yes, I love him. And he loves me." 

\---

Erik walks back into the living room fifteen minutes later to find Charles settled on the couch again, reading that same book. Charles looks up when Erik closes the door behind him, and Erik takes another moment to just...take him in. God, he's beautiful.

"You're dressed," Charles remarks, his eyes sweeping over Erik's turtleneck and khakis. 

"So are you," Erik says, indicating Charles's oxford and jeans. 

"We needed milk." Charles raises an eyebrow. "Why are you dressed?"

"Don't you already know?" Erik's sure his mind must be screaming it, must be yelling it so loudly that Charles can't help but hear. 

Charles tilts his head, showing no sign that he's heard any of Erik's thoughts. "Contrary to what you may think, darling, I'm not always in your head." And Erik doesn't think that, hasn't thought that since the early days of their relationship, but for _once_ , could Charles stop pretending Erik's like everyone else? Erik's not scared of Charles's telepathy, but Charles refuses to _see_. 

"Humor me," Charles continues, with a crooked smile. He closes his book and sets it on the table next to him.

Erik closes his eyes. He's not sure if Charles knows and is simply being an asshole by making him say it out loud, or if Charles really isn't reading him. He's not sure which possibility is worse. 

"Erik?" Charles prompts gently. 

Erik sighs and opens his eyes. Right. Might as well rip off the band-aid. 

"I think you might be about to leave me," he says. "And I didn't want to be wearing my robe and ratty pajamas."

He thinks he sees Charles wince, but it's there and gone so fast that he can't be sure. But there's no reassuring touch of Charles's mind, nothing to tell him that Charles will stay with him no matter how awful the thing he's done is. 

Erik wants to stop, wants to take it back—but he's begun now, and he might as well finish. He looks at the wall, at the floor, at the chessboard by the window, anywhere but at Charles. 

"I...slept with someone," Erik says, finally. "A prostitute." He pauses, then adds, "A woman." He dares a look at Charles, whose face is...blank. His mind is still silent; if he's in Erik's head (he probably isn't), he's hiding it well. "It didn't mean anything, and I was sorry as soon as I'd done it, but." He turns his wedding ring around and around on his finger—with his hand, not his powers. 

"Say something," he pleads, after about a minute of silence during which Charles avoids looking him in the eye. "Please, Charles." 

"Why did you tell me?" Charles says quietly, looking studiously at his hands. "You didn't have to tell me." 

"It would have come out eventually," Erik replies. "Better it be now and that you hear it directly from me than that you find out...some other way." 

"You mean my telepathy," Charles says. His voice is hard, cold. "You know I don't pry, that's—"

"That's not how I meant it," Erik cuts in, trying to head off this argument before it starts (again). "It's...you told me, once, how the bigger a secret is, the more likely it is that some part of it will leak, that you'll pick up on it no matter what." 

"I'm on suppressants," Charles snaps. He stands abruptly. "It takes effort to pick up anything beyond the strongest surface thoughts unless someone's projecting."

"I thought you'd stopped."

"Well, I started again." Charles shakes his head. "Too much noise in my head." 

Erik steps forward, hand outstretched—and then he realizes Charles probably doesn't want him anywhere near him right now. He lets his hand fall back to his side. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business." 

"Not any of my—for fuck's sake, Charles, I'm your husband!" Erik shouts, nearly throwing his hands in the air. "Of course it's my business, I should know these things. It's important!"

"It's my decision," Charles says, defensive. 

"I never said it wasn't."

"Then I don't see why you care." 

"I _love_ you, Charles," Erik bursts out. "Of course I care. I care about every part of you."

Charles says nothing. He turns away from Erik, rests his hand on the back of the couch, and sighs heavily. And that...well, that says it all.

"You _are_ leaving me," Erik says, his voice cracking. He knows he sounds desperate, pathetic, but he can't bring himself to care.

Charles nods, still looking away. 

"Yes," he says. He sounds...calm, and Erik wants to rage at him, throw things—how can he be so placid, when everything is falling apart?

"Because of this?"

"No." 

"Then what?"

The air is heavy, so heavy, the silence stifling. Charles says nothing, staying perfectly still. For a moment, Erik allows himself to think it's some terrible joke, that Charles will turn around with that grin on his face and say, surprise, I was kidding, I just wanted to make you feel terrible for cheating on me, now let's kiss and make up and go to bed, darling. But it's not; he knows it's not, and the look on Charles's face when he turns around, determined and devastated all at once, is proof-positive. 

"Emma," Charles says simply. Erik blinks. Whatever he had been expecting, it had not been that. 

"Cupid?" he asks sharply. "She's our joke." 

Charles shakes his head. He bites his lip, on the edge of saying something awful, something that Erik knows will shatter every piece of him. And then he says: 

"I love her." 

\---

Raven is silent for a long time after Emma's confession, standing completely still as she stares at Emma, her eyes gimlets. Emma has no idea what she's thinking or feeling: her mind is locked down tighter than ever before, and her body language is completely unreadable.

When she does finally speak, her question is one Emma hadn't been expecting:

"Didn't he get married?"

"Yes," Emma replies, quashing the seed of hurt that always makes itself felt when she's reminded of the fact. Her mouth twists ever so slightly and she says, "We stopped seeing each other."

Raven tilts her head. "This was..."

"Five months ago."

Raven huffs a laugh of disbelief. "Right around our anniversary."

"Yes."

"So that weekend, when you kept going for long walks and spending an eternity on the phone instead of staying in bed with me in the hotel, that wasn't you talking to your brother, that was..."

"Me calling Charles and trying to change his mind, yes."

"How _desperately_ did you beg?" Raven asks, harsh and cutting. "You must have been _pathetic_ , for him to feel guilty enough to be with you."

Emma bristles. "It's not like that. He loves me."

"No," Raven says. She walks forward and lays her hands on either side of Emma's face, gently, carefully, as if Emma's the fragile one here. " _I_ love you." She kisses Emma, slow and languid and burning, burning, and then pulls back to say, deadly serious and entirely certain, "No one will ever love you as much as I do."

True as that may be, Raven's love is...stifling, terrifying. Emma can't love Raven the way Raven loves her, can't open herself that completely or put herself so entirely in the hands of someone else. Charles understands that, in a way Raven never has. He's never asked for more of Emma than she wants to give, nor has he has ever offered all of himself. He's calmer, more relaxing, and after three years with Raven, Emma is...exhausted. 

"Sugar," she tries. 

"No," Raven says, abruptly pulling away and storming to the opposite side of the living room. "No, you don't get to 'sugar' me." She stops in front of the bookshelf and turns around, folding her arms across her chest. 

"I'm sorry," Emma says. She's not sure what else she can say—she's not sure there _is_ anything else to say.

"Irrelevant," Raven retorts. "What are you sorry for?"

"Everything," Emma says honestly. She takes a step forward. "Raven—"

"Don't come near me," Raven spits, stepping back until she's pressed up against the bookshelf. "Don't you even dare. You stay the fuck back."

Emma raises her hands placatingly. "Okay. Whatever you want." 

"What I _want_ doesn't really matter, does it?" 

"It always matters," Emma says, maybe a little too honest.

Raven looks away, biting her lip in a gesture that reminds Emma viscerally of Charles. 

"God," she says, finally. "You are such a _shit_." 

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry, you're sorry, you're _so_ sorry," Raven mocks, head shooting back up so she can glare at Emma. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with your sorries?" 

"Nothing. Something. I don't know," Emma says. She sighs, resists the urge to run her hand through her hair. "Deception is brutal, I'd never say otherwise, but—"

"Oh, yes, it's brutal," Raven shoots back. "It's so brutal for you, poor you and Charles, forced to keep a secret, hurting the people who love you, I feel really sorry for you." 

"I didn't mean—"

"Of course you didn't." 

Raven looks down at the floor. Her arms uncross, falling to hang at her sides, before her entire body slumps. 

Emma waits. 

"How?" Raven asks quietly, staring at her feet. "How do you...do this to someone? To me?"

"I'm sorry," Emma says again.

"Not an answer."

The thing is—Emma doesn't have one. 

"I never intended to hurt you, sugar," she says gently. Raven snorts, but says nothing. "I didn't mean to fall in love with him, it just...happened. I couldn't help it."

"Oh, don't give me that shit," Raven says, her head snapping up. "You could have helped it; don't pretend you didn't have a choice. There's a moment, there's always a moment: 'I can do this, I can give in to this, or I can resist it.'" She pauses, lets the full weight of her words sink in. "And I don't know when your moment was, but I bet you there was one, and I bet you barely even thought of me before you decided to give in." 

It's a little too on the nose for Emma, who freezes, thinking. 

Raven makes a considering noise, then says, quietly, "I thought as much." She stands up straight, pushing off from the bookshelf, and walks toward the door. "I'm gone." 

Emma should let her leave—but even now, she can't stop taking care of Raven, can't stop feeling needed. She strides to the door, and cuts off Raven's exit. 

"Move," Raven says firmly.

"It's not safe out there," Emma says. It's a weak excuse at best, but she can't think of anything else to say to keep Raven in the apartment. Suddenly, as much as she'd wanted this to be over, she doesn't want to let Raven go. 

She really wishes her heart would make up its damn mind.

"Oh, and I suppose it's safe in here," Raven says. She pushes at Emma, but Emma turns diamond and staunchly refuses to budge. 

"What about your things?"

Raven rolls her eyes. "I don't need things. I never needed _things_." 

"Where will you go?"

"Why the fuck do you care?" Raven demands. "You'll have Charles." 

"I'll always care." 

Raven exhales loudly. "And I thought you couldn't get any worse."

Emma ignores the dig, saying again, "Where will you go?"

Raven smiles mysteriously and ripples into a completely nondescript person—even Emma is hard-put to recognize her—and simply says:

"Disappear."

\---

Charles watches Erik, staying carefully within the bounds of his own mind, as Erik processes what Charles has just said. 

"You love her," he says flatly, after what seems like an age. "And...what?"

"And we're together."

"Ah." Erik is impassive, neither his tone nor his expression giving anything away. His eyes meet Charles's unflinchingly, unnervingly steady. 

"How long?" he asks, after another pause.

"Since just after my opening," Charles replies. Finally unable to meet Erik's gaze any longer, he looks off to the side. He closes his eyes briefly and covers his mouth with his hand as he thinks of what he's saying, as he realizes precisely how horrid he's been to Erik, to Raven, to Emma, to everyone. 

"Oh God," Charles breathes. "I'm _disgusting_."

"No," Erik says silkily. Charles flinches; this is Erik at his most furious. "No," Erik says again. "Not disgusting. You're _marvelous_. You're clever, so very clever." His smooth, menacing tone twists the words, turning them into insults more hurtful than any yelled curses. 

Charles almost _wants_ Erik to shout, to call him names; then he could get angry right back, scream out his frustrations as he never really has. But he can't do anything in the face of this quiet, burning fury except take it, absorb all the blows and never show how much they hurt. 

"Why did you stay with me?" Erik asks. He laughs mirthlessly. "Why the hell did you stay with me, Charles—and why the _fuck_ did you marry me?"

"I wanted us to work," Charles says quietly, looking up. Erik's jaw is clenched, his eyes burning, hands balled into fists at his sides. He's stunning. "I really—I loved you, I wanted us to work, you have to believe that."

"Loved," Erik repeats, putting special emphasis on the final consonant. 

"Love," Charles corrects. "I love you, Erik, I do, I just—"

"Love someone else more," Erik says, one corner of his mouth twitching. 

"No," Charles says. "No, I—no." He sighs and twists his fingers together, carefully avoiding touching his ring. "I stopped seeing her, I broke everything off, I tried, I really did."

"Not hard enough, it seems." 

Oh, _that's_ rich. Charles levels Erik with a hard stare. "Oh, _fuck_ you. This wasn't all on me, you know."

"And what did _I_ do," Erik says, his voice dropping several levels, "except love you?" 

Charles laughs bitterly. "You just told me you slept with a whore," he points out. "I can only presume she wasn't the first." He curls his lip. "Or that you limited yourself to women."

"Shouldn't you _know_?" Erik holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers by his temples, and that's it, Charles snaps. 

"No, I don't fucking know, Erik, thank you very much!" he exclaims, jumping up from the couch. "I'm not in your head all the time, and I don't know why you seem so convinced that I have absolutely no ethics to speak of, but I don't go rooting in your head to try to dig up all your deepest secrets. I _do not_ know everything about you, nor is it my business to!"

"No, you don't," Erik shoots back, "you don't know a thing about me, because you never bother to ask, you never showed an interest in knowing more than what I've told you. You think I don't know you're not in my head all the time? You're _never_ in my head, Charles, and I don't know if that's because you don't trust me, or if you think I'm the most inane person you've ever met, or if my brain just isn't _fascinating_ enough—"

"That's not it, none of that was ever it!" _It's not about you_ , Charles wants to shout, _it was never about you_ —but of course it is. 

It's about Erik, it's about Raven, it's about everyone he's ever been with who hasn't been a telepath. His "gift" has driven all of them away, and he couldn't stand to see it happen even one more time, couldn't have Erik, with his unparalleled mind and his devoted love, turn away and hate the feel of Charles in his head. And Charles would have felt it, would have had to stay in Erik's mind and pretend everything was all right even as he felt Erik's thoughts sicken and turn against him, until Erik finally ordered Charles to stay out of his head and asked for lessons in shielding. Better to never have that intimacy, to never grow comfortable in Erik's mind, than to have that and lose it—again. 

Emma understands. At least, she understands more than anyone else has, but she also doesn't comprehend why Charles takes suppressants. She's never felt the overwhelming pressure of so many voices in her head that she loses herself, as he has. His shields can only do so much once he's already inundated, and the suppressants, much as they dull his faculties, help. Right now, for example, it's so much easier to look at Erik, to remember why he's leaving him and why Emma's better for Charles, than it would be if Charles could feel what Erik was feeling, the turmoil evident in Erik's eyes magnified a thousandfold in Charles's head. 

Erik and Charles stare each other down, tense and radiating fury that presses in on Charles, even with his telepathy occluded by the suppressants. For the first time, Charles is truly concerned that this will come to blows—and then Erik slumps over a little, blinking and looking away, the fight draining out of him with a suddenness that tugs at Charles's heart. 

"I thought—" Erik says quietly, brokenly, "well." He looks back at Charles. "I thought we were happy."

Charles can't keep himself from fixing Erik with his most disdainful expression, a look that demands to know exactly how _delusional_ Erik has been. They haven't been happy for a long time. 

"You slept with someone else," Charles points out. "You say you regret it, you say you don't know why you did it—but the fact that you did do it says quite enough, don't you think?"

Erik's eyes narrow. "G-d, you just can't _stop_ , can you? You're the one who's been cheating on me, carrying on an affair for longer than we've been married, and still _I'm_ the one in the wrong." He advances on Charles. "Tell me: did you ever fuck her here?"

Charles stands his ground, even if he wants nothing more than to turn and run. He doesn't like the direction this conversation is taking, knows no good will come of this. But he's told enough lies; Erik deserves some truth, at least. 

"Yes," he says. 

"Tonight?" Erik demands. "That's why you showered, isn't it, so I wouldn't smell her on you."

"Yes," Charles replies, tilting his chin up defiantly. 

"Where?" Erik asks. He's staring daggers at Charles, his eyes completely focused on him—so of course when Charles's eyes fall on the couch, unconsciously answering Erik's question, Erik picks up on it. "Here?" Erik asks, walking over to the couch and slapping the cushions loudly. Charles tries not to flinch, but he doesn't quite succeed. He nods. 

Erik's face twists. 

"Our first fuck was on this couch," he says, a little quieter, but no less furious. "Did you remember that? Did you think about that when you were fucking someone else?"

Charles says nothing. 

"Did you?" Erik roars, straightening up. The metal in the room starts rattling, and Charles flinches again. Erik sighs exasperatedly and raises his arm expansively; he clenches his fist, and the trembling in the room stops, even though Erik's still vibrating with rage. "Tell me, Charles, did you think about me when you were fucking her?"

Charles looks away and bites his lip, then nods, not trusting his voice to speak. 

"And she knew, didn't she," Erik says, his voice dropping back down as he moves toward Charles again, practically prowling. "She's a telepath, she must have known—did it turn her on? Or did she get mad, did she take it out on you the way you like it, you _utter slut_?" He grabs Charles's wrist for emphasis, squeezing just beyond the point of pain. 

Charles glares up at Erik as he yanks his wrist free, but he stays where he is, refusing to be cowed. "What difference does it make to you? It's absolutely none of your business." 

"You made it my business when you decided to cheat on me in _my house_ ," Erik shoots back. "And I want to know because I want to know, plain and simple." He snakes his hand down Charles's back, barely touching him, and then he presses in a bit harder, driving his palms into Charles's arse—and Charles can't help hissing as Erik grazes the bruises Emma left. Erik grins, all teeth and no humor, and lets Charles go, shoving him away unceremoniously. "Well, that answers that question." 

"You complete and utter _barbarian_ ," Charles spits, grabbing on to the back of the sofa to steady himself. "She bent me over her knee and spanked me, there; is that what you wanted to know, are you _happy_?" 

"Did you come?"

"Oh, for fuck's—how the hell does it _matter_?"

"It matters to me!" Erik yells. "Did. You. Come?" 

"Of _course_ I did!" Charles shoots back. "We had sex, what do you think, we were going to grind against each other like teenagers and then stop before we got off? I didn't come from _that_ , though, if that's what you're asking." 

"How did you come?"

Charles exhales heavily. 

"Why are you doing this, Erik?" 

"Because I want to know," Erik replies. "Tell me how you came, Charles." 

Charles sighs and looks at the door, refusing to meet Erik's gaze, insistent as it is. He doesn't want to do this, but he also knows Erik will never rest until he gets an answer. "First she went down on me, then I went down on her, and then we fucked." 

"Were you on top?"

Charles shrugs. "She was." He pauses. "And then she came, and then I fucked her from behind." 

"So you came twice." 

Charles closes his eyes and grinds the heels of his hands into them. "Why is the sex so important?"

"Because I'm a pervert, I'm a fucking caveman. Is that what you want me to say?" Erik spits out. "Answer the damn question."

Fine. If this is how Erik wants to play, then Charles will play. "Yes, I came twice," he says. "And so did she."

"I don't care about her."

"Oh, but if the sex is so important, you should know about every aspect of it," Charles says smoothly. "Would you like to see it, would you like me to project it to you, do you want to see how I moaned and touched her and begged her to suck me off, do you want to know how I felt, buried to the hilt in her cunt, do you want to see how she turned me into a quivering mess using nothing but the deftest touches of her telepathy?"

Now it's Erik's turn to look away.

"I thought not." 

"I didn't say that." 

"I don't need to be a telepath to know what you were thinking." 

"I thought you didn't know what I was thinking anyway."

"Low," Charles says. "Somewhat accurate, but low. And regardless, everything you're feeling right now is written on your face; I don't need powers to see your disgust. It's all right, darling, I don't mind. I must admit, the thought of seeing _your_ tryst doesn't appeal to me at all."

"Fuck you," Erik says, with heat. 

"Get in line."

"I think I'll pass." 

"I figured as much." There's a pause. Charles tilts his head. "There's more, isn't there? You're not done."

"I thought you weren't in my head," Erik says, glaring.

"I'm not," Charles says. He doesn't comment that it's sentiments like those that drove him away in the first place. "But it's quite obvious." He spreads his hands. "Go on, darling, ask. Get it all off your chest." 

"D'you wank for her?"

Charles rolls his eyes. "We do everything people who have sex do, and a great deal more besides," he says. "And before you ask, yes, a lot of it makes use of our powers, but that's not all of it." 

"Is she a good fuck?"

"Yes." 

"Better than me?"

"Different." 

"How?"

Charles sighs, looks heavenward. "Must we really do this?" 

"You told me I could ask, so I'm going to ask," Erik says shortly, crossing his arms across his chest. "So how is she different? Aside from the fact that she has breasts and a cunt, of course." 

"Of course," Charles says dryly. He thinks for a moment, then says, "She's...gentler. But she doesn't treat me like I'm made of glass." He shoots Erik a meaningful look. "Or make me feel cheap."

"And I do."

"Sometimes."

"I wonder why that is," Erik says, giving him a look that's a cross between a leer and a glare. Charles glares right back. 

"Fucker."

"No, that's you, _darling_ ," Erik retorts, putting a cruel emphasis on the word. 

"Sometimes it's her," Charles says, just to see the look on Erik's face. 

"You like that?" Erik says sharply. "You like it when she fucks you?"

"Yes." 

"You really are a slut, aren't you," he spits, his tone lacking the fondness it's held before, and that...hurts. And, of course, it proves Charles's earlier point.

"And you're a jealous caveman," Charles shoots back. "Are we quite done?"

"No," Erik says harshly. "No, we're done when I say we're done." 

"No, I think we're done now," Charles says, turning on his heel and making to leave the room. He's halted by a tendril snaking out from the metal lamp by the sofa and looping around his forearm. "Erik, let me go." 

"I'm not done."

" _I_ am," Charles says, whirling angrily to face Erik. He tugs at the metal wrapped around his arm, but of course it won't budge. His voice rises. "Erik!" 

"A few more questions."

"No," Charles says. "We're done with the questions, we're _done_ here, let. Me. _Go_." He tugs again, and the metal only wraps itself tighter, coming dangerously close to cutting off his circulation. Charles grits his teeth and reaches for his telepathy, fighting through the fog of the suppressants to take hold of his powers so he can defend himself if necessary. He's always been certain that Erik would never hurt him, would never even _dare_ , but this...this is an Erik he's never seen before, and if Charles is honest with himself, he's a little scared. "Erik!"

"You said you went down on her."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Charles demands. 

"Just answer the question."

Charles glares. The tendril flexes again, and he stops struggling for a moment.

"I did. It wasn't the first time, either."

"You like her cunt?"

"I _love_ it," Charles exclaims, licking his lips to make Erik angry—of course, it works. Erik's fists clench, and the metal lamp creaks—but, thankfully, the tendril wrapped around Charles's arm doesn't tighten.

"What does she taste like?"

And now Erik's gone for the route of the completely vulgar. "I beg your pardon?"

"What. Does. She. Taste like?"

"That is an absurd question, I'm not even going to _pretend_ to dignify it with an answer—"

"What does she taste like?" Erik yells, and that's it, something in Charles snaps, and he shouts right back:

"She tastes like you, but sweeter!" 

\---

"Raven," Emma says placatingly. "Be reasonable; it's late, you're not thinking clearly." She holds up her hands. "I understand if you don't want to see me; I'll go." 

"No," Raven says fiercely. She shifts back to her blue form and tries to push Emma out of the way again; even in diamond form, Emma can barely hold her off, has to plant her feet firmly and grip the doorjamb for leverage. "No, you don't get to leave me, _I'm_ the one who leaves, no, no, no, no, no, no, _no_." Her shoves grow weaker with every denial, until she's practically sobbing against Emma's chest, her hands stilling on Emma's shoulders and gripping them tightly. Emma gives Raven a second—and then, once she's sure Raven's not going to run right this second, she fades back to flesh and wraps her arms around Raven's waist. She knows she shouldn't, knows she's only making this worse, but she can't help herself. 

This is harder than she'd ever thought. 

"I'm sorry," Emma finds herself saying again, carding her fingers through Raven's sleek hair. 

"Too late," Raven says into Emma's breastbone. 

"I know." 

They stay like that for a few minutes, holding each other. Then Raven's hands loosen their death grip, and Emma lets her arms fall to her sides, allowing Raven to step back and resume her position on the opposite side of the room. Emma sighs and closes her eyes, leaning against the doorjamb and giving herself a moment. 

When she opens her eyes, Raven is staring at her, her expression bleak and lost. 

"Will I be able to see you?" Raven asks. Emma looks away. She's thought about this over and over again; if she left Raven for Charles, would she still be able to keep her? Is gaining Charles worth losing Raven? Could she stand to see Raven's hurt and accusation time and time again and still manage to stay with Charles, to give him what he's promised to give her? She's gone over it over and over again, and the answer is always the same. 

"Emma?" Raven prods.

"No," Emma says, half to herself. "No, I can't see you; if I see you, I'll never leave you." 

"And what'll you do if I'm with someone else?" 

Emma doesn't even have to think about it. "Be jealous." 

Raven smiles at that, a small thing with a hint of mischief. Emma almost smiles to see it, but she knows Raven wouldn't like it, so she keeps it to herself. Then Raven looks away, bites her lip. Emma watches her warily, still not entirely certain she won't bolt for the door as soon as she spots an opening. 

"He won't make you happy," Raven says, after a long silence. "Charles. He doesn't love like I do." 

"I know he doesn't," Emma says. "But I love the way he loves me." 

Raven's head whips around, her gaze searching Emma's face for—something. If she finds it, she doesn't give any sign. Then she slumps. "You're bored with me." 

And if _that_ wasn't out of left field... Almost against her will, Emma finds herself moving forward to comfort Raven, to soothe her fears—but she stops herself short. "No, sugar," she says, and she can't keep the concern out of her voice. "No, of course not, it's not that." 

"You did love me?" 

Raven sounds small, uncertain. Emma hates seeing her like this, hates that she's the one who's done this to her—but done is done; there's nothing for it now. She'd known from the start that Raven would never forgive her for this, known the beginning of Charles would be the end of Raven. She's been preparing herself for this for a while now, and she _deserves_ to hurt, deserves to feel guilty over what she's done. But the guilt was never going to be enough to make her stay. Nor was the love, though that certainly kept Emma here for far longer than she should have lingered.

"Of course," Emma says. "I still do." Then, feeling she should at least give Raven _some_ kind of truth, hurt though it may, she adds, "I think I'll always love you." 

Raven laughs, small and cold. "Liar," she says. She looks up and away, eyes fixing on someone or something that isn't there. "I've been you. You're just trying to make me hate you less." Her gaze locks with Emma's. "You can't."

"I love you," Emma insists. She's not sure why it matters so much that Raven believe her, but somehow, it does. Perhaps Emma's trying to ease the guilt. "I hate that I'm hurting you." 

Raven rolls her eyes and walks over to the couch, flopping down onto it with a sigh. She folds her arms. "If you hated it so much, you wouldn't do it." 

"I'm...happy with Charles," Emma admits, walking over to the couch. She sits on the arm furthest from Raven and crosses her legs. "I think I'll be happier with him. I know it's selfish, but I never said I wasn't."

"No," Raven agrees, looking at Emma carefully. Then she turns her head away and quietly, so quietly Emma almost doesn't hear, says, "Why isn't love enough?"

There's a long, fraught silence before Raven turns to face Emma head-on, her eyes bleak and filled with such hurt that Emma can no longer hold herself back. She slides down to sit properly on the couch and pulls Raven into her arms, kissing her with a fervency she hasn't felt in ages. Raven clings to her, and Emma tastes salt; she's not sure if they're Raven's tears or hers, or both. It doesn't matter. It's goodbye, and it's not quite forgiveness, but it's a more effective apology than any of Emma's words could ever be, and Raven seems to...accept it, at least. 

When they finally, finally part, Raven rests her forehead against Emma's, closes her eyes, and breathes in deeply. Emma follows suit, and they stay there for a while—seconds, minutes, hours, she has no idea. 

Raven drops a brief kiss on Emma's lips, there and gone so fast that Emma doesn't have time to respond. Then she smiles, a lopsided thing. 

"Go on, sugar," she says, nudging Emma up off the couch. "Make some tea." 

By this point, Emma is more than willing to indulge Raven in her whims—after all, this is the last time—so she brushes herself off and walks into the kitchen, where she loses herself in the familiar rhythms. She smiles to herself shakily; Charles has definitely been rubbing off on her if she finds making tea soothing. 

She's so lost in the ritual, in fact, that she nearly misses hearing the door open—and when she does hear it, it takes her a minute to realize what it was. It's a good thing she isn't holding the teapot or the mugs, or they would have shattered on the floor as she runs into the living room, only to find it empty, the door to the apartment wide open. Emma rushes out and down the stairs, taking them two at a time, too impatient and frantic to wait for the elevator, but when she gets to the bottom and outside the building, it's already too late. Raven's disappeared, exactly as she'd said she would, and no amount of scanning the evening crowds for her mind can tell Emma where she is—her shielding's just too damn good. 

Emma closes her eyes, resting for a moment, and then heads back inside. Raven is gone, and Emma...Emma needs to pack.

\---

Charles and Erik stand, frozen, staring at each other across the living room, Charles's words ringing in the silence. Erik had been expecting something awful, but he'd never expected something that...honest. It's frankly too honest, and the shocked look on Charles's face says that he'd been as surprised to hear it as Erik. 

Belatedly, Erik realizes the metal from the lamp is still wrapped around Charles's forearm, holding him in place maybe a little more tightly than Erik had intended. All he'd wanted was to keep Charles from leaving. He's not sure what's possessed him—jealousy, certainly, and betrayal, and hurt, but...if this is how he reacts in such situations, then maybe Charles is better off without him. Erik sighs and, with a flick of his fingers, the metal around Charles's arm unwinds, slithering back into the lamp's base. Charles exhales slowly and starts to massage his arm, rotating his wrist and grimacing slightly, carefully avoiding looking at Erik. It's clear that he wants to be anywhere but here, and that the only reason he's staying is that he's afraid of what Erik might do. 

Erik thinks he might hate himself more than he ever has before. 

He shifts his gaze to the side, unable to bear looking at Charles anymore. He can feel Charles watching him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to say or do something—the ball's in Erik's court.

"Thank you," Erik says, finally. "Thank you for your honesty." He closes his eyes briefly and summons up his courage, his fury, his pain, his jealousy, all to give him the strength to look Charles in the eye and say, with as much venom as he can muster, "Now fuck off and die, you fucked-up slag."

Charles's eyes widen, then narrow, and for a moment, Erik thinks Charles is going to say something, going to argue, thinks they might have a hope of making up and forgetting this whole nightmare ever happened—

And then Charles is gone, his ring clattering loudly on the floor, and Erik is alone.


	3. III - No Love, No Glory

It's one thing to be late for a museum visit, to be late for dinner, to be late coming home. Being late to the opera, though, places Charles in a special circle of Hell that Emma's never quite thought anyone she was with could enter. 

She narrows her eyes at him when she sees him walk in. His quick brush of _sorry, sorry_ against her mind makes her even angrier, though she's not sure why.

 _They won't let us in until the Act's over_ , she fires at him as he comes to stand next to her at the bar, resting his elbows lightly on the counter. (Onstage, Zerlina and Giovanni have just decided to _andiam_.)

 _I have been to the opera before_ , he replies peevishly as he orders a whisky neat for him and a martini for her. He plants the faintest hint of suggestion in the bartender's mind to go heavy on the vermouth, exactly the way Emma likes it.

(She'd bristle at the easy possession, but they've been ordering for each other since the first time they went out together. It's almost a game they play, diving in and out of their minds, each seeing what the other wants a mere second before it's relevant.)

After a moment, there's another brush of apology. "I really am sorry," he says quietly, placing a hand on her arm.

She sighs, but doesn't shake him off and accepts the perfunctory kiss he presses to her cheek. It isn't worth it to stay mad at him. But she still wants to know _why_ he was late, especially when he had promised he'd get here before her for once.

_What happened?_

_Traffic_ , Charles says, accepting his tumbler from the bartender and leading Emma to sit at a nearby table. It's not quite a lie. His mind's more opaque than usual as he takes a large gulp of his drink, and it makes her uneasy. More than that, he's subdued, holding himself in, shying away from the gentle touch of her thoughts. Something's wrong.

"How was it?" she asks, barely moving her lips. It's better for privacy's sake to speak mind-to-mind, yes, but it's disorienting when he's this distant. Charles's mouth twists almost imperceptibly; he takes a hurried sip of his whisky to cover it up.

"Fine," is all he says.

"How is he?" she presses. He winces, looks away.

"Awful," he breathes. God, he's such a bleeding heart.

"How's his neurosurgery?"

"He's in private practice, now." A flash of pride, and a brief glimpse of Erik as he'd looked when Charles saw him this afternoon, tall and bitter and broken but still gorgeous to Charles's eyes, and Emma can't help the wave of jealousy that spikes when she feels how Charles still lusts after him. Charles's eyes tighten imperceptibly, and he pulls his shields in closer, shuttering the image and all associated feelings away. In response, she turns the hand he's holding loosely to diamond before pulling it away, and takes a calm sip of her martini. It's perfect, of course it's perfect, Charles always knows.

"Was he weeping all over the place?" she asks, not a little vindictive. He matches her gaze coolly; he knows her game.

"Some of the time," he answers, taking back her diamond hand and rubbing his thumb lightly along the back. "Are you angry I saw him?"

She hates it when he does this, when he pretends they're not above such pedestrian things as asking questions to which they already know the answer. She's made no secret of her displeasure; he has to feel it.

Regardless: "Yes," she says sharply. She keeps her hand diamond, not wanting to relinquish her edge—but she also doesn't snatch it back, content to let him keep trying to wear away at her with kindness. "I haven't seen Raven."

He flinches; Raven is a sore subject.

(He'd told her, eventually, maybe a month after they'd moved in together. Lying in bed one night, he'd buried his face in her shoulder and told her of how he and Raven had grown up together, closer than any brother and sister had a right to be, how completely they'd loved each other, how one day Raven had looked at him and told him point-blank to stay out of her head, how hurt he'd been but how he'd done it for her, because he loved her, how one day she'd simply vanished, and the grief he'd carried around for years until he'd seen her again that day in his studio, and the pain he'll never quite relieve. It'd explained quite a lot—and at the same time, told Emma almost nothing. She doesn't have Raven's side of the story, which is undoubtedly the one that would make far more sense.)

"You don't know where she is," Charles reminds Emma. _You haven't looked_ goes unsaid.

She removes her hand from his, letting it fade back to flesh, and picks up her drink. He mirrors the action, avoiding her assessing gaze as he takes a larger-than-usual sip.

"You know why I saw him," he says quietly. "He's been begging for months, withholding his signature on the divorce papers until he saw me in person. And you know it took another two weeks to bargain him down to lunch in a public venue instead of dinner at his" ( _our_ , he thinks) "apartment."

"Yes," she says. _Your ridiculous_ compunctions, she thinks at him. If he weren't so concerned with being _moral_ all the time, they could have been done with this months ago. He nods, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge the thought. He still won't look at her.

She nudges his calf with her foot, forcing him to meet her eyes, and she lifts her eyebrows slightly, sending a pulse of inquiry. He smiles, and it's almost his normal full, bright smile.

"He signed," he nods. He leans over and kisses her cheek.

"Congratulations, sugar," she says, allowing her lips to quirk upward. "You're free."

"Mm," he nods. He tilts his head at the thought he hears from her, and chuckles a little. "Double- _divorcé_ , yes." His shields relax marginally, some more emotion bleeding out. But there's precious little of the happiness she might have expected (though really, this is _Charles_ ; she should know better than to expect him to abandon his precious martyr complex). Instead, he's primarily radiating _tired_ , with an edge of... _guilt_? 

_I love you_ , she says, presses his hand as she stands. He smiles tightly, and suddenly she needs to be anywhere but at this table with him. "I'm going to refresh my drink," she announces. "I'll get you a new one, too." He nods, keeping his eyes locked with hers. 

Something still feels off, and she ponders it as she walks back over to the bar. As much as he's shielding, he still seems to be hoping for her to find something. The guilt isn't entirely puzzling; of course he's feeling conflicted about finalizing his divorce with Erik. The man must be broken, must have tried all kinds of things to make Charles feel like shit, must have used all kinds of bargaining chips to—

Oh. _Oh._

 _Son of a_ bitch, she thinks at him vindictively. The shields fade nearly entirely, the guilt amplifying exponentially as feelings of self-disgust mixed with a tiny bit of pleasure ramp up, and Emma can _feel_ the bruises pressed into his hips, the slight soreness of his ass as he shifts in the chair. She whirls around, ignoring the bartender who's just returning with their drinks, and stalks over to Charles. She shifts into diamond as she yanks him out of his chair and pulls him outside.

 _Batti, batti_ , indeed.

"You slept with him," she hisses. He looks back at her with perfect equilibrium; she doesn't need him to say anything to know that it's true. _What do you expect me to do?_ she demands.

"Understand," he says. He's still maddeningly calm, and she hates him for it, hates that he can stand there looking cool and unruffled when that's _her_ default state. He should be crying, should be begging her forgiveness.

She drops the diamond; he can't speak into her mind when she's wearing it, and she would prefer they not create any more of a scene than they already have.

 _Why didn't you hide it better?_ she asks. _You_ wanted _me to know._

 _We promised we'd tell each other the truth_ , he replies. _We said we wouldn't hide._

She laughs quietly. _You didn't actually think we'd hold to that, did you, sugar?_

He raises an eyebrow. Of course he didn't. But he can pretend, oh yes, he can. She knows Lehnsherr thinks Charles naïve; he's anything but. He's Charles Xavier the Sanctimonious Prick, Charles Xavier the Holier-than-Thou, Charles Xavier the I-Will-Sit-Here-and-Judge-You-and-Pretend-to-be-Better-Than-All-of-You-When-Really-I'm-the-Worst-of-Us-All. She glares.

_Sleeping with your ex-husband—couldn't think of anything more original?_

He shrugs one shoulder. _I did what he wanted, and now he'll leave me—us—alone._ The mask starts to fade. He reaches for her hand, but stops just shy of taking it. _I love you. I didn't give him anything._

 _You_ , she contradicts.

 _My body, maybe_ , he concedes. _But not my mind_ , and there's that ever-present bitterness she knows so well. _You have that, my dear._

She sniffs, but lets him take her hand.

"If...If Raven came to you, wanting and desperate and with all that love still between you, and she said she needed to sleep with you to get over you, you'd do it," he says quietly, pressing her hand between both of his. "I wouldn't like it, but I'd understand." He raises her hand to his mouth and kisses her palm. "I'd forgive you."

 _It's kindness_ , he finishes.

 _It's cowardice_ , she shoots back, yanking her hand away. _You can't stand to have him hate you, or even to have him forget you. You_ want _him needing you, want him desperate for you. You don't have the balls to let yourself lose that power over him. You don't have the courage to let him go._

His eyes blaze for a moment, almost preternaturally blue. But he doesn't deny the truth of her words—he _can't_ deny them, and she's not even sure how much he'd want to. And that...well.

She doesn't go diamond again, but it's a close thing.

"Don't," he murmurs. "Don't stop loving me." He closes his eyes, inhales. "I can _feel_ it draining away from you, Emma. Don't...please." He opens his eyes. _It's me, remember?_ He strokes her mind with his own, and she shudders. _It didn't mean anything._

But there's the rub: It did. It does. To both of them.

Then, he tries: _If you love me enough, you'll forgive me_. And oh, the _bastard_. It's everything she loves and hates about him, that manipulation tied with affection, guilt and love and the barest hint of control and power bleeding together.

"Stop testing me," she says quietly. She wishes for her drink, still languishing atop the bar.

"I'm not," he replies, just as soft. "I really do understand."

She wants to push him down the stairs for that.

"No," she says. _He understands._

Charles flinches.

 _He's very clever, your ex-husband_ , she drawls, placing special emphasis on the "ex." _I almost admire him._

_Emma..._

_Oh, you know you enjoyed it_ , she says, riding over his protest. _He begs, pleads, anything to get you into bed. And then you're there, and it's the old jokes, the strange familiarity, his_ cock _—I know how much you missed his dick, sugar. Feels like you really availed yourself of it today. Had a_ whale _of a time, didn't you?_

 _Why bother asking, when you already know?_ he demands, irritation and anger simmering beneath his words. It's a strange mirror, him throwing her earlier thoughts back at her. _Seems a pointless venture._ He's withdrawing into himself again, shields coming up and shutting her out, more solidly than he has before. And oh, that's _rich_. He wants to play? She'll play.

 _Oh, but I won't_ really _know unless I ask him_. She ripples into diamond before he can respond telepathically, so he's reduced to the simplicity—the crudeness, really—of using his mouth.

"Why don't you?" he asks. His jaw works, telegraphing his frustration, but he doesn't raise his voice. He hasn't yet.

"Perhaps I will."

"Perhaps you should."

For a moment, they stare at each other, unblinking, neither willing to cede any ground.

And then there's roaring applause, and the ushers open the doors, and people start to pour out; the act is over.

Charles looks away briefly; Emma lets the diamond fade. They stay within themselves, neither reaching for the other—mentally or physically—as they're jostled by the crowds moving for the bar.

He raises an eyebrow at her. She nods, once. With a few well-placed nudges to clear their path, they walk back to the bar, pick up their discarded drinks (no one's touched them, of course), and drain them. He then offers her his arm, perfunctory, none of his usual amusement underlying the gesture. She rests her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow and allows him to lead her out of the theater.

At the bottom of the steps, he turns to her and sketches a bow.

"Miss Frost," he says lightly.

"Mr. Xavier," she replies, her tone identical.

This is the moment. He's waiting on her lead.

She turns diamond; he drops his arm. Wordlessly, they turn away from each other and walk in opposite directions. They don't look back.

*

Charles wakes up with a hangover. This is, in and of itself, not too remarkable an occurrence, but it hasn't been common recently. Telepathic feedback usually means that if one telepath has a headache, so does any other telepath in the immediate vicinity, and Emma had always taken pity on both Charles and herself and used her natural resilience to help him cope for both their sakes—

Oh. Right.

Charles closes his eyes, rubs his temples, and groans as the entire world— _shifts_.

"Fuck," he declares. "Fuck, fuck, fucking _fuck_." His shields are shot to _hell_ —he can hear the couple upstairs mentally sniping at each other over breakfast, notes the hyperactive children two apartments down, and can sense the truly ridiculous number of people having morning sex on a Sunday. It's too much; clearly, he needs to get out of the apartment and head to the studio. Maybe he'll do some sculpting.

He drags himself out of bed with a heavy sigh. Time to get on with his life, Emma Frost be damned.

\---

Three hours and four Advils later, Charles feels vaguely human. His mind is still essentially serving as a giant antenna for the thoughts of everyone in a fifteen-mile radius, but it's more manageable than it was when he woke up. Still, he wishes Emma hadn't flushed his suppressants down the toilet months ago; he really could have used them today. If things get too bad, he can always leave the city, head up to the house—but that feels like running away. Today, of all days, he's not going to be the coward Emma always accused him of being.

He's working painstakingly on a massive model of the telepathy locus of his own X-gene, carefully adding methyl groups to the appropriate cytosines, when the buzzer rings. He ignores it, hoping whoever it is will give up and go away. He's in no mood to deal with anyone, not even girl scouts peddling cookies. But whoever's at the door is persistent, and when he continues to ignore the buzzer, they start pressing it in an unceasing rhythm. His head screams in protest, and Charles nearly snaps a phosphate molecule off a crucial site in the gene.

"Fuck's sake," he mutters, drawing his overstretched mind in and focusing it on the front door to see who the hell is there. If it's a Jehovah's Witness or some other type of religious word-spreader, he won't be held responsible for his actions.

It's worse than a Jehovah's Witness. It's Erik.

Charles sighs and descends the stairs. He knows Erik; his ex-husband will only be content with talking face-to-face. 

"What do you want?" Charles grinds out as he opens the door. He nearly curses; Erik, in his customary peacoat and grey scarf, looks good enough to eat. Charles, on the other hand—

"You look like shit," Erik says, sounding not a little gleeful at the thought. Bastard.

"And you're a dick, as always," Charles replies. "Seriously, Erik, why are you here? I'm quite positive we left things rather conclusively yesterday, so _please_ just...fuck off."

Erik holds up a manila envelope. In that moment, Charles hates him, hates his stupid smirk and the smugness radiating off him in waves, hates the way Erik never looks as good as he does when he's taking someone down a peg.

"I thought you might want these," he says smoothly. "After all the trouble you went to to get them—"

Charles flushes hotly and snatches the envelope from Erik.

"Thank you," he says. "You can go now." But as he makes to close the door, Erik steps forward to prevent him from doing so.

"I don't think I will," he says, a little more earnestly. "You see, I ran into Emma Frost this morning." _I hunted her down to gloat_ goes unsaid, but they both know the truth of it.

Erik did always play a long game. And right now, he's smiling the smile he uses when he's got Charles in check, with mate in five or less.

But Charles isn't ready to tip his king over quite yet.

"Did you?" he asks mildly. "I'm sorry for you both, then. Goodbye." He makes to close the door again, but it won't budge even half an inch; Erik's using his power to hold the hinges in place.

"Erik," Charles says, low and dangerous. "Don't make me—"

"Five minutes, Charles," Erik says quickly, the smugness almost completely gone. "Let me in for five minutes, and then, if you really want me to go, I'll leave and never bother you again."

It's a lie, but Charles won't deny that even the prospect of getting Erik to leave him alone is attractive. Surely he can control himself for five minutes. (And, if he's to be honest with himself, he's rather curious to hear Erik's latest last-ditch attempt to get him back.)

He steps out of the doorway, leaving space for Erik to enter.

"Five minutes," he says.

"Thank you," Erik replies. He flashes _that_ smile at Charles as he steps inside—the one that never fails to make Charles's heart pause, the one that, if he's being honest with himself, is a large part of why he fell for Erik in the first place. As Erik takes off his coat and unwinds his scarf, revealing the turtleneck that Charles gave him for their first Christmas, Charles's mouth goes dry, and a faint flush comes to his cheeks. Erik's pulling out all the stops for this, and oh, he's _good_.

But then again, so is Charles. He may look like death warmed over, but he knows how to play this game: he licks his lips, immediately drawing Erik's attention. Erik strides closer, and the envelope crumples slightly in Charles's grip as he reminds himself that Erik _signed_ , that as soon as Charles files the papers Monday morning, they'll be legally divorced and he won't owe Erik a damn thing. At the same time, he can feel his anticipation spiking as Erik draws near—and, from the sharp burst of pleasure radiating from the other man, his reaction hasn't gone unnoticed.

"If you want me to stay for longer than five minutes..." Erik murmurs as he brushes past Charles to the stairs.

"No need," Charles replies, reclaiming his equanimity as well as he can. His headache is coming back, which also means his shields are slipping again, and the _last_ thing he wants is for his defenses to be vulnerable when Erik is in his studio, making his (hopefully) final play for Charles.

He follows Erik up the stairs, pausing at the landing to take another pill from the bottle lying on the table to his right.

"Headache?" Erik asks, wincing sympathetically. Charles nods, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples absently. For a moment, he picks up a brief flare of alarm from Erik's direction; he sighs.

"Even if I wanted to read you right now, my focus is so shot to hell that I doubt I'd be able to pick up anything more detailed than what you ate for breakfast," he says without looking up, a faint edge of bitterness in his tone.

"I wasn't—" Erik protests, but Charles isn't having any of this, not today.

"You were, even if it wasn't conscious," he says sharply.

"I wasn't afraid of that," Erik snaps. "Pardon me for being _worried_ about you."

Charles laughs harshly. "Sure, you're worried about me as far as it suits your wants and needs and your sex drive. I'm not in the mood for sex, and that's really why you're here, isn't it? So you can leave—you're not getting what you came for."

Erik huffs loudly. He walks over and grabs Charles by the shoulders, shakes him a little. "G-d, you are such a _child_."

"And you're not?" Charles shoots back, forcibly breaking from Erik's grip. "The instant you gave your favorite toy away was the moment you wanted it back, and instead of accepting that it was gone, you kept running after it and sulking when you couldn't get your way."

Erik's fist clenches and unclenches.

"I'd say you're being unfair and inaccurate," he says quietly, dangerously, "but you're always right, aren't you? So _convinced_ you're the victim, that everything's happened to you and that you've done nothing to hurt anyone, because Heaven _forbid_ you acknowledge your faults." He pauses. "I'm not Mystique, Charles. And the sooner you realise that—"

"Raven? What the _fuck_ do you know about Raven?" Charles demands.

"Quite a bit," Erik replies, maddeningly calm. And then there is a flash of something—pounding music, flashing lights, men everywhere, and in the middle of it all: Raven, blonde and then blue and in clothing so skimpy it barely deserves the title. As Charles watches, she lowers one bra strap, then the other...and Charles slams up every shield he can muster.

Both men wince.

"You _fucker_ ," Charles spits, after he's taken a moment to recover. "My _sister_?" He forgets that Erik isn't supposed to know, that Charles had never told him, that Raven doesn't even acknowledge Charles as her brother and hasn't for years; all that falls away in the face of what he's just seen from Erik.

"You told me preciously little about her," Erik points out, obfuscating. Charles glares. "You didn't even mention that the girl in the picture that made you famous was your sister—I got that from _her_. I was furious at you and furious at Emma, and I...couldn't help myself." Erik smiles his shark's smile and spreads his arms. "Unlike you, Charles, I've never claimed to be any better than I am. I'm a nasty fucker and an asshole to boot. Besides," and at this, the grin widens, "both she and I got something we wanted out of it." He shrugs, drops his arms. "It was the one time, and that's all. Well. A few lunch dates; she's lonely. But there. Now you have something on me, and I have something on you." He places his hands flat on Charles's drafting table, his eyes boring into Charles's. "I forgive you," he says seriously, his voice heavy with intent. "I love you. Please come back."

Charles has no idea how to respond to this. Forgiveness? That isn't quite Erik's style, and the roiling emotions underlying his declaration would suggest things aren't quite that simple. Charles walks over to the table with his X-gene sculpture on it and sits down, rubbing his temples once more. Interestingly, Erik's concern doesn't spike this time—but maybe his anxiety is already at its maximum.

"Say something," Erik pleads, after several seconds of silence pass.

"I believe your requested five minutes have passed," Charles says flatly. He doesn't look at Erik, but the mass of conflicting emotions sparked by his statement says enough. "I'd like for you to go now."

But instead of turning around and leaving as Charles wishes he would, Erik strides forward, coming to stand by Charles.

"At least do me the courtesy of giving me an answer," he says sharply. "I think you owe me that much."

"I don't owe you a damn thing," Charles snaps, jumping to his feet. He stares daggers at Erik. "Any claim you had to me or anything from me was gone the moment you begged me into one last fuck. You've had your revenge on Emma, had your revenge on me; I hope you're happy." He turns away. "But I'm done, Erik. _We're_ done. You have to accept that." 

They stand in silence for a minute or so. Then:

"Read me," Erik says suddenly.

"What?" Charles asks, surprised. They both know he hasn't been particularly restrained with his telepathy today, but it's never been Erik's style to invite Charles in; he's always assumed Charles is in his head, and only told Charles to get _out_ , never to come in. It's certainly a change.

"Read me," Erik says again, more confidently this time. It's practically a command.

"I don't—" Charles begins, stalling in the hope of hiding his uncertainty. On the one hand, he's missed Erik's mind, missed its familiar order and structure and the tick-tick-tick of all that machinery sitting on the molten core of Erik's passion and rage. On the other hand: he's _missed_ Erik's mind. If he goes in, he may never want to come out.

"Please," Erik whispers. He takes Charles's hands and puts them on either side of his own face, leans forward until their foreheads are touching. His mind is completely open, and Charles can't help but sink in; it's like gravity, like magnetism, an inexorable force—and Charles, a movable object, is helpless to resist.

"I forgive you," Erik breathes, and yes, yes he does, and no, it's not simple, as Charles knew it wouldn't be, betrayal and hurt and fury writ almost as large as Erik's _desire_ to forgive him, "I love you," he continues, and Charles nearly gasps at the enormity of it, at the incandescence of what Erik feels, soured as it is by everything they've done to each other, by everything they _will_ do to each other, because— _Come back_ , Erik thinks, hard as he can, and there's so much want and need and hope and love but also so much hurt, and Charles could never say no to someone in that much pain, can't hold back from the onslaught of everything Erik's feeling, everything he himself is feeling, and really, he was a fool to think he could ever resist this—and then it's the work of a moment to whisper, "Yes, _yes_ ," _yes_ , and then they're kissing and Charles can hardly tell where Erik ends and he begins.

When they pull apart, foreheads still pressed together, Charles's hands still framing Erik's face—Erik's hands mirroring Charles's—they're both breathing heavily, their cheeks soaked.

"Forgive me," Erik whispers.

"Yes," Charles says, just as quietly. And it's not that easy, won't be that easy, _can't_ be that easy, but in this moment, there's nothing more he can say, except:

"I love you."

Erik lets out a choked sob as he presses Charles desperately to him, his emotions still spilling out all over the studio, all over the city. Charles breathes in, losing himself in Erik and ignoring the way the sculpture on the table has twisted beyond all repair, the metal of the nitrogenous bonds warped beyond the point of mutation.

It's not perfect, it'll never be perfect. (He'll keep the divorce papers, just in case. No sense in going through this rigmarole again.) But for now, it's...enough.

He tips his king.

_Checkmate._

*

Erik sits at his desk in his office, finishing up some charting from the day before. He's finishing up his third patient chart when the intercom buzzes.

"Yes?" he asks brusquely, drumming his fingers impatiently against the table as he waits for the system to save. 

"Dr. Lehnsherr," his assistant's clipped voice says. "There's a woman here to see you; she doesn't have an appointment, but she says she knows you're free and that you'll want to see her." His assistant sounds skeptical; Erik grins. He has an idea of who this may be.

"Did she give a name?" he asks. 

There's a pause, and then his assistant says, "Emma Frost." Erik's grin widens to the point where it would probably terrify small children. 

"When's my next?" he asks.

"Two." 

He looks up at the clock, absently twisting the gold band around his left ring finger. Twenty minutes from now. Perfect. 

"Send her in." 

Less than a minute later, Emma Frost sweeps into Erik's office. She's dressed impeccably in white, as always, but she looks less put-together than usual. Several wisps of blonde hair are falling out of her elaborate updo, and her clothes aren't quite straight, the pendant hanging around her neck not quite centered. More than that, her expression isn't schooled into its habitual haughty sneer; she looks mildly unhappy, which, as Erik understands it, means she's miserable. 

"Emma," Erik says mildly, looking up from his computer. He indicates the chairs in front of his desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Charles," Emma says curtly. She pointedly doesn't sit. "Let him go."

"That's Charles's decision," Erik says. "And, at least for the time being, he's made his choice."

"Because you _made_ him," Emma storms, pointing accusingly at him. "You talked him into bed with you, and then—"

"I think you'll find that no one really _makes_ Charles do anything," Erik points out. It's something of a lie; for all that Charles is a master of manipulation and deception in his own right, once you know his buttons, he really is fantastically malleable. 

"Oh, that's bullshit, and you know it," she shoots back. Erik checks his shields to make sure they're still firmly in place; they are, so at least she's not picking that up from his head. For added defense, he reinforces them slightly, the way Charles has taught him. She flinches; Erik sneers. 

She sets her jaw. "If you really love him," she says, "you'll let him go so he can be with me, so he can be happy."

"And he's not happy with me?" Erik asks lowly, dangerously. He fiddles with his wedding ring again, and pointedly touches the framed picture from his and Charles's wedding that sits on his desk. Emma glares at him. 

"You're only with him because of me," she says. 

"Yeah," Erik agrees. He smirks. "Thanks, Cupid." 

"God," she says. "You are such a _shit_ , I have no idea what he sees in you." 

"Great mystery of the world, isn't it?" Erik says, spreading his arms. 

She rolls her eyes and sits in the chair he'd indicated when she'd first walked in. "Your marriage is a joke." 

"Here's a good joke: he never sent the divorce papers to his lawyer." Erik smiles and tilts his head. "Isn't that funny?"

"Asshole."

"Cunt." 

"I love him," Emma bursts out. She winces as soon as the words finish leaving her mouth, her face freezing into an emotionless mask. Erik sighs. She's so pathetic like this; he almost feels sorry for her. Almost. 

"How sad for you," Erik says. He fixes her with a hard glare. "So do I." 

"You love him like a dog loves its owner," she says, her tone dripping with disdain. Erik shrugs. 

"Perhaps," he says. "But the owner does love the dog for so doing." 

She shakes her head. "You're so...common. You don't deserve him." 

"And yet, I'm the one he's chosen," Erik says. "So what does that make me, really?" He pauses, then says, "For that matter, what does that make you?"

Emma hisses and stands abruptly. She starts to pace. After a minute or so, she stops and whirls on him. "Do you think he enjoyed it, when you brought him here, when you fucked him?" 

"I didn't bring him here to show him a good time," Erik says. "I fucked him to fuck you up." He smirks. "Worked, didn't it?" His smirk grows wider. "And of course he enjoyed it. He loves a guilty fuck, you know that." 

Emma stops and stares at him. "You're despicable."

"And you're a lying bitch who stole my husband," Erik says pleasantly, though it's becoming harder and harder to keep calm. "It all works out in the end." 

She shakes her head. "You're an animal. You think love is simple, you think the heart is like a diagram."

"Have you ever seen a human heart?" Erik demands, his voice rising. "Because I have. It looks like a fist"—he stands and holds up his own fist, to demonstrate—"wrapped in blood." He shakes his head. "Don't you dare tell me you understand love. You don't know the first thing about love because you don't understand compromise." 

"He hates you," Emma says. "He hates your simplicity." 

"Oh, sweetheart," Erik drawls. "I have spent the past week talking about you with him. I know all your little habits, I know you only fuck him if there's a towel on the bed, I know you like to sleep in diamond because you're scared something will attack you while your guard is down, I know—"

"Shut. Up." She's turned diamond, and her glare could probably cut him down where he stands. 

"I could go on," Erik says, to rile her up even further. 

"You've said enough." Then she slumps, fading back to flesh and sitting back in the chair. Her mask cracks, just for a moment, but it's long enough for him to see how sad, how lonely she really is. It reminds him of Mystique, of the way she'd looked in that club, so lost and alone that he hadn't been able to help reaching out to her... 

He thinks for a moment, then sits back down, pulls out his prescription pad, and scribbles an address on it. He tears off the sheet and holds it out to her. 

"Here," he says. 

She looks up at him through too-bright eyes. 

"Sorry?"

"Take it," Erik says, waving the paper at her. 

"What is it?" 

"An address," Erik says. "For Mys—Raven." He can see the spark of hope flare in her gaze, and then watches it fade just as quickly.

"You don't know where she is," Emma says. "No one knows where she is."

"I do," he says. "I found her, accidentally. She's working at a strip club." He pauses, then adds, "Yes, I saw her naked. No, I did not fuck her." 

Emma takes the slip of paper, but simply stares at it, clearly at a loss. "Even if I went to find her, she wouldn't have me," she says quietly. 

"She would," Erik says. "She's hopelessly in love with you, G-d knows why, but there it is. Go back to her. Doctor's orders." 

She rolls her eyes. They're silent for a moment, and then she stands, making to leave.

"I read your book," he says. She smiles, a little crookedly.

"You stand alone." 

"With Charles," he corrects. "We didn't hate it. I actually agreed with you on some of your points." He smiles wryly. "Might have liked a few more if you hadn't stolen my husband."

"Thanks," she says, a bit tonelessly. 

"We read your columns, too," he says. "They're not awful."

"Glowing praise," she says sarcastically. 

The intercom buzzes. 

"That'll be my next patient," he says. "You should go."

"Yes," she says. "I...thank you." 

He raises an eyebrow at her. "What for?" 

"For being kind." She frowns and amends, "Well. Kinder than maybe you should have been." She folds the prescription carefully and tucks it into her purse. 

"One thing," he warns. "If you come near Charles again, I'll kill you."

She flickers to diamond. "I'd like to see you try," she says. Then she fades back to flesh, waves a hand at him, and heads for the door. 

He can't resist getting in one last parting shot, though. 

"Emma," he calls, right before she opens the door. She turns around and looks at him expectantly.

"I lied," he says. He smiles, not pleasantly. "I did fuck Raven." 

Emma stills, so slightly that he almost misses it. 

"Thank you for your honesty," she says sharply, and now it's his turn to flinch at the too-familiar words. "Goodbye." 

She leaves, the door slamming shut behind her.

*

Emma can't quite believe her luck. After leaving Erik's office, in turns embarrassed and furious both at how she'd conducted herself and at how much of an asshole Erik Lehnsherr is, she'd gone home, had a good cry over Charles, and then, once she'd excised the last of her bitterness, made herself back up and headed to the address Erik had given her. She'd half-expected to come upon a deserted flophouse out of which lowlifes dealt in drugs and prostitutes, but instead, wonder of wonders, she had come upon an upscale club that advertised "Exotic" entertainment (which, these days, instead of meaning "not-Caucasian," means "mutant"), in which she had, as promised, found Raven.

Raven, who is now lying on a hotel bed with Emma, blue and naked and as beautiful as she'd ever been, grinning and laughing and acting as if they haven't been apart for months.

"Show me the sneer," Raven says, staring intently at Emma's face. Emma obliges, and Raven sits up, clapping her hands delightedly. "Beautiful!"

Emma laughs, rolling over and pinning Raven to the bed. She leans down to kiss her. _You'll wake the whole hotel_ , she admonishes.

Raven nips at Emma's lips, her hands sliding tantalizingly up and down Emma's spine. _Let them hear_ , she thinks back. _I want them to be jealous._

Emma's hard-pressed to argue with that, so she presses a little harder, kissing Raven with more fervor, relearning her after all these months. Right as things are starting to get really heated, Raven stops, pushing Emma off.

"Wait, wait, wait," she says, throwing Emma a smile and stroking her upper arm to reassure her that she's not upset. "I still haven't brushed."

"Fuck brushing," Emma says, leaning back in, but Raven flips the two of them over, and Emma freezes, unbelievably aroused by Raven's superior strength, as always. Raven grins and drops a quick kiss on Emma's lips before pushing herself up and off the bed, throwing a smirk over her shoulder as she goes.

"How many stitches did I get?"

"Four, but you should have got five," Emma replies. She pushes herself up onto her elbows, looking at the light streaming out of the open bathroom door. She thinks for a second, and then says, "What was your euphemism?"

"Disarming," Raven calls from inside. "Too easy!" There's a pause in which Emma can hear the water running. Then Raven asks, "Were the hospital chairs in the waiting room grey or blue?"

Emma thinks for a moment, delving into her memory, and then: "Trick question," she calls back, laughing. "They were green."

 _Nice job, sugar_ , Raven says, coming to the door of the bathroom, her mouth full of brush and toothpaste. Then she goes back inside and finishes up, and when she comes back out, she flops artlessly back onto the bed, stretching out alongside Emma.

"So," Emma says. She eases herself back down and turns to lie on her side, facing Raven. She reaches out and trails her hand up and down Raven's arm, pausing every so often to tease at the scales, making Raven shiver. "Where are we going?"

"You didn't peek, did you?" Raven says teasingly, reaching up to tap Emma's temple. Emma rolls her eyes.

"You said you wanted it to be a secret, so I let you keep it a secret," she said. "Now where are we going?"

"It's still a secret," Raven says. She kisses Emma lightly. "You'll find out when we get to the airport."

"Raven."

"Nope." Raven shakes her head, smiling like the cat that got the cream, and it's too much; Emma reaches out and tickles her, until Raven squeals between her giggles, "London, London calling!"

"London?" Emma asks, flopping back. "I don't have my passport."

"I have it," Raven says. "Hidden away, in a place you can't find it, with mine. No one sees my passport picture."

Emma tilts her head. "Are you blue or blonde?"

"Purple," Raven says. It's a joke, Emma knows it's a joke, but she also knows it's Raven's way of telling her to drop it. Things are fragile enough right now that Emma doesn't want to push too hard, so she does, instead leaning in to kiss Raven some more.

"Mm," Raven murmurs, as Emma moves down from her lips to her neck. "You know, when we get on the plane, we'll have been together four years?"

"Four years?" Emma asks, raising her head to shoot Raven a questioning look. "What about—"

"Trial separation," Raven says quickly, airily. She leans up and kisses Emma. "Didn't take. Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary," Emma replies, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Sorry, I didn't get you anything."

"It's okay," Raven grins. "You can buy me something nice when we get to London."

"Whatever you want," Emma promises, kissing her again.

"Anything?" Raven asks.

"Anything," Emma murmurs, returning to kissing down Raven's neck. Raven sighs contentedly and tilts her head to grant Emma better access, spreading her legs so Emma can settle more comfortably between them. 

After a few minutes, Raven squirms a little and says, "Why didn't we ever take a vacation before?"

"We did," Emma reminds her, raising herself up off Raven a little. "That time we went to the country, remember?"

"Doesn't count," Raven replies immediately. "You were off calling that, that—"

"Yes, yes," Emma cuts her off before Raven can come up with whatever insult she's decided best suits Charles today. She slides up to drop a kiss on Raven's lips. "All right, we never did. I don't know why we didn't." She grins. "We'll just have to make up for all the ones we missed with this one."

"Yes," Raven agrees. She grins and pulls Emma down to her, exhaling into her mouth before kissing her fully, her tongue dancing teasingly in and out of Emma's mouth. Then, without any warning, Raven rolls them over so she's on top, and she starts kissing her way down Emma's neck, lingering on her collarbones. She pauses briefly to divest Emma of the few clothes she's still wearing, and then she's about to dive back in when Emma, unable to hold it in any longer, presses a hand to Raven's breastbone, holding her off.

"What?" Raven asks, uncertainly.

"Before we—before we do anything," Emma says, hating herself with every word—but she knows she'd hate herself even more if she didn't say anything, and let things stew until they came to a head months down the line—"I want to know something."

Raven shoots Emma an incredulous look, but only says, "Yeah?"

"Erik," Emma says. "Tell me what happened."

Raven rolls her eyes and clambers off Emma, lying down beside her. "Really?" she asks. "Right now?"

"I just...need to know," Emma says. "Just. For my peace of mind."

For a moment, Emma's terrified Raven's going to say something horrible, like, _Don't you already know?_ or _Why don't you look yourself?_ but she doesn't. Instead, she sighs and rolls onto her back to stare at the ceiling.

"Lots of people come to the club," Raven says, finally. " _You_ came to the club."

"Looking for you."

"And you found me," Raven says, turning her head to bestow a brilliant smile on Emma.

"I did," Emma agrees, remembering going into the club, scanning the dancers' faces to see if any of them were wearing a face she'd ever seen Raven wear, and then, when that had failed, using her mind to look through the crowd, and finally landing upon Raven's mind, still shielded as strongly as ever, but completely unmistakable. She kisses Raven, still unable to believe she was willing to forgive her, to take her back. Emma never should have left her.

But she's getting distracted from the point. "Erik," she reminds. "He came to the club."

Raven sighs. "And he watched me strip, and we talked a bit because he was pathetically lonely, and that was it."

"You promise."

Raven rolls her eyes. "I promise. If you don't believe me, you can always read my mind for it."

"I trust you," Emma lies. She wouldn't violate Raven's mind, though, wouldn't break through her shields like that; who knows what damage she could do?

"You'd better, sugar," Raven says, pinching Emma's side just this side of painful.

"I do," Emma says. She slides closer to Raven and reaches up to play with her hair. "So nothing happened?"

Raven exhales loudly and pulls away. "Why does it even matter? You were with someone else!"

"What are you justifying?" Emma asks, sitting up.

"Nothing!" Raven says, sitting up as well. "I'm not justifying, I'm just saying—you don't have any right to get mad at me for something I may or may not have done while you were off living with someone else!"

"So you did sleep with him."

"God," Raven exclaims. "It doesn't. Fucking. Matter. It's my body, I can do what I want with it, and I don't have to tell you anything about what I did during that time. Next thing I know, you'll be telling me to give up stripping."

"I wouldn't," Emma says. "It makes you happy. That's all I want, for you to be happy."

"Then why are you pushing so hard?" Raven asks. She's clearly upset, curling in on herself and drawing further away from Emma.

"Because I want to know the truth," Emma says. "I'm addicted to it now." _Fuck you, Charles_ , she adds silently. _Fuck you and your honesty._

Raven looks away.

"Okay," Emma says. "Okay. We're both upset, and we're not getting anywhere. I'm going to go take a walk, and when I come back, just...tell me the truth, and we can move on."

Raven nods, not looking at Emma.

"Promise me you'll be here when I get back?" Emma's still somewhat paranoid about that night all those months ago when Raven had left without even saying goodbye, leaving Emma anxious until that day in Erik's office. And fuck him, too, for making her do this, for making her distrust Raven when Raven is the one person she should be able to trust, the one person she should be able to love unconditionally.

Raven nods again. "Promise," she says quietly.

"Okay," Emma says. She gets up and throws on one of the robes in the closet, slides her feet into the slippers provided, and then leaves the room. What she wouldn't do for a cigarette right now...but no, she gave up ages ago, and so has Raven, now, so there aren't any cigarettes to be had, not without leaving the hotel, and Emma doesn't want to do that. She keeps mental tabs on Raven, hovering without touching, making sure Raven does actually stay put this time, and while Raven moves around their room quite a lot, hurt and upset radiating off her strongly enough to make it past her shields, she doesn't seem to make any move to leave the room, which is...good.

Emma walks around for approximately ten minutes, which is about how long it takes for her anger and frustration to subside, replaced by resignation and, to some degree, acceptance. It's done, it's over, she knows Raven slept with Erik and doesn't need to hear it from Raven—the memories that Erik had pushed at her had been more than enough—and now the best thing to do is to put him, and Charles, behind them. That's what she'll say when she gets back, tell Raven that she doesn't care, but that she forgives her anyway, and they should forget Emma ever said anything.

When Emma gets back into the room, Raven's sitting on the bed, Emma's bags beside her, staring fixedly at the door, obviously waiting for Emma to return. Before Emma can say anything, Raven says, simply:

"I don't love you anymore."

Emma, surprised, takes a step back—and remembers to close the door behind her. "Sorry?" she asks. She can't have heard that right.

"I don't love you anymore," Raven says.

"I don't understand," Emma says, walking toward her.

"It's very simple. I don't love you anymore."

Every time she says it, Emma's heart breaks a little more. They'd been so happy, mere minutes ago; what changed so quickly?

"When?" Emma asks finally. "When did you stop loving me?"

"Just now," Raven says. "Don't want to lie, can't tell the truth, so. It's over. We're done."

"Raven," Emma pleads. "I'm sorry, I don't care, it doesn't _matter_ , I was stupid to think it did, please, forgive me, I love you."

"Too late," Raven says flatly. "I don't love you anymore. Can't just reverse it like that."

"You just did!" Emma exclaims, unable to quite comprehend what, exactly, is going on.

"Falling out of love is easy," Raven says, her mouth twisting into something that might be called a smile, if her eyes didn't look so completely dead. "It's falling in love that's the tricky part. And once you stop loving someone, you stop loving them. It's over." She stands and looks Emma dead in the eye, her gaze hard and unflinching. "Here's the truth, so you can hate me: Erik fucked me all night. I liked it. I came. I prefer you. Now go."

"I knew," Emma admits.

"You _knew_?" Raven asks, suddenly furious. She flickers, skin adopting the faintest tint of red. "Then why the fuck did you ask? Why did you _keep_ asking?"

"I needed to hear it from you," Emma said. "I know, I know, it's stupid, I knew he was telling the truth because I read his mind, but I...needed to hear you say it."

"You're sick," Raven says. "You know, I never would have told you, because I knew you'd never forgive me."

"But I _do_ forgive you!" Emma exclaims. "You've forgiven me for Charles, I forgive you for Erik, now we're even, can't we—"

"No," Raven says. "I don't love you anymore. It's too late."

"Raven," Emma says quietly, walking over to her and taking her hands. "Please. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to test you, I'm an idiot."

"You are," Raven agrees. She yanks her hands ungently from Emma's grip. "I would have loved you forever." She gives her a small smile, sad and pitying. "But now I don't love you anymore. Please go."

"But _I_ love _you_!" Emma exclaims, chasing after Raven. "Raven, please—"

"No!" Raven shoots back. "Your love is useless, your love changes because of what other people say or do, your love is fickle and weak, and I can't do anything with it. You say you love me, you show me your love with your telepathy, but how can I know it's real when it picks up and leaves whenever you think I'm not worthy?" Raven shakes her head. "I don't. Love. You. Any. More." She walks over to the phone. "Now leave, or I'm calling security."

Emma rolls her eyes. Raven is such a child. "You're not in the club, there is no security," she reminds her, striding over and putting her hand on the receiver to hold it in the cradle.

"I can still call people who can get you to leave," Raven argues, which is true. And fine. Fine. Emma will leave, but she might as well get all her questions answered before she goes, if this is how it's going to end. They can both hate each other.

"Why did you fuck him?" she demands.

"Because I wanted to," Raven shoots back.

"Why?"

"I desired him."

"Why?"

"Because you weren't there!" Raven yells. "Is that what you want to hear? I fucked him because you weren't there, because I was lonely and so was he, and he was an asshole to me but he also didn't only want me because of what I could do! That's why I fucked him, and I would do it all over again, and so _fuck you_ , and your standards, and your judgement!"  
  
Emma backs away in the face of Raven's fury. She's never really seen Raven like this—even when she'd told Raven about Charles, Raven had been more hurt than angry. Now...Emma's starting to think that she never really knew Raven, not at all.

"Who are you?" she asks quietly.

"I'm no one," Raven says. She closes her eyes and turns her head to the side. She ripples into her blonde form—the form of Charles's sister, Emma knows now—and repeats, "I'm no one," almost inaudibly, before rippling into a number of different faces, changing too fast for Emma's eyes to pick up on any one.

Finally, she stops on her blue form. She looks back up at Emma, and the expression on her face is so broken, so devastated, that Emma can't bring herself to stay if she's the one who put it there.

"I don't love you anymore," Raven says. "Goodbye."

Emma leaves. It's the only thing left for her to do.


	4. Epilogue - Just Like You Said It Would Be

Mystique sits at a table in a cafe, drinking an iced coffee through a straw. She kicks her foot aimlessly, lets her shoe flicker from red to black to silver to red again, ignoring the stares of the people at the table next to her. She thinks about checking the time, but it's not important; he'll be here when he'll be here, and it's not like she has anywhere to be.

She's about halfway through her drink when she sees him, walking briskly across the street, scowling heavily at the crowds pressing in around him, as if everyone is doing him some personal wrong simply by being there. She smiles a little; it's nice to know that some things will never change.

He walks up to the cafe and stops on the sidewalk in front of the entrance, scanning the patrons until his eyes land on her. She raises an eyebrow; he strides over to her.

"Mystique," he says.

"You always know it's me," she replies.

"You're not wearing any metal," he points out, and it's true; her power creates the illusion of metal, in jewelry, in buttons, in the pins of her shoes, but she almost never wears anything that actually has metal in it. Then he smiles. "Besides, you're the most beautiful person in this dump."

She rolls her eyes. "You're such an asshole."  
  
"Only for you," he replies.

"Now, _that's_ a lie."

He inclines his head. She flaps her hand.

"Go on, get a coffee; you look like you could use some caffeine. Possibly a truckload."

He frowns and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Is it that obvious?"

"Erik," she says seriously. "You look like you're about to uproot every single building around us if someone looks at you the wrong way." She tilts her head. "Better yet, get tea. Something with lots of herbs, possibly honey. Maybe some rosehip."

He rolls his eyes. "Very funny."

"I thought so," she grins. She reaches across the table and shoves him. "Now go on, shoo."

"Fine, fine." He sets down his bag on the chair across from her, and ducks inside the cafe. She fiddles with the straw of her drink for a minute and then lets it go with a sigh, uncrossing and crossing her legs several times. She debates rummaging through Erik's bag, but even though he usually lets her get away with a lot, he wouldn't take too kindly to that, especially if he's got patient data in there.

"Do you ever sit still?" he asks, coming up from behind her. He holds his drink protectively, but she can see the tea bag string poking out of the cup, and she grins.

"Only if I have a very good reason," she says.

He shrugs and takes a careful sip of his drink. "Fair enough."

Then they're silent, looking out at the crowds passing by on the sidewalk, people shoving and jostling in their hurry to get home from work.

"Charles sends his love," Erik says, finally, still not looking at her.

"So you're still together, then." She'd noticed Erik wearing his ring, but he'd been wearing it at the club, too, so that isn't the best indicator.

"Mmhmm."

She doesn't ask how it's going; he doesn't offer.

"How's work?"

"Same as always," he sighs. "Long, depressing, but worth it every now and again." He shoots a sidelong glance at her. "How's...whatever you're doing, these days?"

"Modeling," she grins. She gestures at herself. "What do you think?"

He eyes her a little more carefully, taking in the dark skin, the flowing hair, the pert, full breasts, the curves of her hips, the arches of her feet, set off by the heels she's created for herself.

"Lovely, as always." He takes a sip of his drink. "You know what I really think, though."

"Yes." She shrugs. "It's fun, though." She doesn't know how to explain that she likes being someone else for a while, likes getting away from Raven and Mystique and all the other people she's been, wearing a new skin and creating a new personality. It's a relief, to not always have to be on her guard against mutie-haters, or fetishists, or even activists.

But Erik wouldn't understand; he's never wanted to be someone else, never tried. Charles might understand, she thinks—but that would require him to listen, to actually hear what she says instead of listening for what he thinks she wants him to hear, and while they've both changed, neither of them has changed enough for that.

"As long as you're happy," Erik says.

"Sure," she says with a shrug and a half-smile, twirling her straw. "It's a life."

He nods.

There's another pause, and then:

"Charles said Emma's moving," Erik says, his tone carefully neutral. She can see the tension in his limbs, the set of his jaw; he's not happy that Charles knows this, is even less happy that he feels like he has to say it to her, but he's doing it anyway.

She can't tell if she's grateful or if she wants to punch him for bringing her up.

"Oh?"

"Something about better opportunities in Los Angeles," Erik says. "Personally, I just think she wants to get away from here."

"Who wouldn't," Mystique mutters. Erik shoots her a piercing look.

"You're not thinking of vanishing, are you?" he says. "I don't think Charles would ever forgive himself if he let you disappear for a third time."

"It's none of his business," she says. "It's none of yours, either."

"No," he agrees. "It's not. But, Mystique—"

"Don't say it."

"All right."

She finishes her drink, slurping loudly and making him grimace as she sucks up every last drop. She grins at him when he's finished, and he shakes his head even as he smiles back. He holds his hand out to her, resting it on the table, and she takes it, clasping it loosely.

After a long, long silence, he finally says, "Charles wanted me to invite you to dinner."

She stiffens and starts to pull her hand out of his; he closes his fingers more tightly to keep her in place.

"I told him you wouldn't want to come, that you wouldn't even want me to ask, but he insisted, and, well," his smile twists, "you know how it is."

She nods.

"I'll tell him the answer's no."

She nods again.

"He's still hoping you'll change your mind some day, you know."

She shakes her head. "He'll be waiting a long time."

"I know." He sighs, though he's smiling. "But you know him and his hopeless cases."

She raises an eyebrow at him; he rolls his eyes.

"Yes," she agrees. She looks at him carefully, sees the lines around his eyes, the slightly forced calm.

"You're happy?" she asks.

He hesitates, biting his lip. His ring twists, catching the light.

"It's a life," he says, finally.

She nods. 

"So it is."

**Author's Note:**

> Again, if you haven't visited MisanthropicSycophant's art masterpost and commented, please do! She's done a fabulous job, and she deserves all your love.


End file.
